Triptych
by ksuzu
Summary: Sarada wanted to be the first Uchiha Hokage. But she may have to become the first Hokage, period. [Warring Clans Era] [Time Travel]
1. panel 1

_._

 _A story is told in three parts—the beginning, the middle, and the end._

 _At the end of the story—of history—Papa's Rinnegan sent me back to the beginning._

 _Maybe it's because I'm Papa's daughter. Maybe it's because he thinks I can survive._

 _I used to think I could survive. (Even become Hokage.)_

 _I shouldn't start doubting myself now._

* * *

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 **Triptych**

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01

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 _the beginning_

 _of the beginning_

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* * *

My hands go numb in the icy river as I scrub at my vest. But the stains are persistent. Perhaps because certain things could never be washed away. Then again, I lack modern detergent, or any sort of soap, for that matter. I don't dwell. Instead, my palms scrub harder, fingers pruned and pink from exertion and cold.

The trees at the edge of the riverbank erupt. A flock of black birds make their exit—magpies. The catalyst for their flight is soon apparent: a white-winged hawk, sleek, fast, and trailing like a tempest. I watch as it banks straight toward the rear of the flock and gathers the quarry in a tight swathe.

 _Shk. Shk._

Two shuriken land on the shallow banks of the river, each several feet away in opposite directions. Only one is attached to a bird. The magpie has been slit neatly at its neck. Blood is already washing out in trickling eddies of red.

Supper.

I reach for the bird.

That's when the glinting kunai comes hurtling from the opposite bank. A dull thunk indicates the hit, and a whooping sound emerges from the trees. Like a young deer, a lanky figure with dual-colored hair bounds from his shelter of thick, green foliage. He splashes through the river to first scoop up the fallen bird, then the half-scrubbed vest.

As he holds the maroon vest up to his eyes to confirm the fan-shaped insignia, his gaze ghosts over the other red-brown smudges. Then, with something like conflicted pity in his eyes, he inspects the body that's fallen on the river bank. The young man's dark eyes widen at the metal contraption that dangles from the pale face.

"The Uchiha even have this…"

He kneels to remove the glasses, careful to not step on the body. Maybe he does not want to rouse the ire of a dead girl. His fingers no sooner brush up against an ear when my kunai—it was _his_ kunai, seconds ago—kisses the base of his throat.

My _bunshin_ , laid out at his feet, disappears in a puff of smoke.

Very slowly, the boy looks up, his face sheet-white.

Why wouldn't it be?

He's staring at the girl he thought he'd just killed.

Now it's my turn to feel guilty. He looks no more than twelve, a few years younger than me. I watch him fidget with my vest in his hands, before dropping it to the mud when I nudge the kunai closer. I suppose I shouldn't threaten a mere boy, but I've been waiting for a chance to encounter another shinobi. Especially if he's who I think he is.

"Who're you?" I prod more gently with the kunai, just enough to emphasize my, well, point. "Why'd you try to kill me?"

He continues to gape, a bad sign. _Did I break him?_ With average height and lanky limbs, I'm not considered intimidating, but then again, ninja in my era dealt with mutated clones and chakra-sucking aliens. But ninja in the Sengoku Jidai were supposed to be made of sterner stuff.

"Spit it out. Your name."

"I-Itama."

"What village?"

"Village?" His face looks like I've just said something incomprehensible. And I have. Old habits die hard.

"What _clan?_ "

He sputters. " _I can't just_ —I mean, Onishi."

History lessons only do so much. But I've still got basic interrogation training under my belt. "You're lying," I say. In response, the so-identified Onishi Itama twiddles his thumbs, a daring but pointless display of nonchalance. It's also such a _modern_ gesture that I fumble my next words.

"You called me an Uchiha. What's your beef with the Uchiha?"

"B-Beef?"

"I mean, why do you want the Uchiha dead?"

"I don't want anyone dead. I was trying to hit a bird."

"Your aim's not bad." I gesture to the shuriken by the bank, and then the other one that has been removed from the bird. Noting the trajectory of their fall, the two shuriken had collided mid-air. "Also, I doubt I'm worth killing over one measly magpie."

He remains silent, his face pinched. An errant thought flits to my brain: Inojin's face, when he's upset and trying to hide something. I catch myself before a familiar cascade of faces begins playing like some bad movie inside my head.

"So, why do you think I'm an Uchiha?" I hum. "Because I'm not."

As planned, this draws a response out of him. "Dark hair and eyes! Classic Uchiha features!" There's almost steam erupting from his ears. "And your Sharingan!"

"What Sharingan?"

I don't show the Sharingan unless I have to. The first village I encountered, a farmer tried to kill himself when he saw my red eyes. Apparently, it means something synonymous with demon here, to ordinary folk.

"I've heard of it," I continue. "But there's no way I have the Sharingan. Terrible eyesight." For emphasis, I tap my glasses, which Itama seems to acknowledge as an aid for poor vision.

"The fan!" He grabs my maroon vest from the ground and shoves it close to my face as if it offends him. "This is a symbol of the Uchiha clan!"

 _Ah. So that legacy lasted for several hundred years._ I feel a wave of guilt again.

"Yes," I reply evenly. "This vest's a pretty color, and functional, even if it's dirty. I picked that up near an abandoned camp upstream."

As Exhibit One, I point down to my ragged white chemise, which showcases hints of my ribcage and sports a stylistically torn midriff. I hadn't exactly come from a party, when I arrived in this era—with no money, next to no equipment, and just the clothes off my back. Itama stares for several seconds, then seems to realize at _what_ he was staring, and flushes an even deeper hue than before.

"You're lying."

" _You're_ the one that's lying," I sigh. "Giving me a false name."

Itama's face gets all scrunched, like he expects me to kill him off on the spot. I remind myself that this era has different rules. But I can't bring myself to stick a kunai into the boy. Even if he was willing to do that with me.

"Anyway, I'm Sarada. Haruno Sarada."

"Ha-ru-no?" Itama says. His brain is spinning, I can tell—going through who that could be. He's never going to find it. That family doesn't enter the shinobi records until over a hundred years pass. I don't wait for him to finish processing before springing the next thing.

"And you're _Senju_ Itama, aren't you?"

"W-What?" the boy yelps, and it's all the confirmation I'll ever need.

"Don't worry. I'll keep it a secret if you want."

Despite my assurance, Itama looks ready to bolt. Or fight me. But he knows by now that I'm older, and have better aim with pointy projectiles, even if he can't be sure that I am or am not an Uchiha. But overpowering him would accomplish nothing. He needs to take the bait.

"One more thing, Itama. That bird is my kill."

"Just wait a minute!" Itama growls angrily. His frustration at his own slip ups is mounting. Perhaps there's an inferiority complex in there somewhere. That, I can work with. I look into his eyes and with all the composure I possess from years of wrangling my teammates, I say:

"Let's share it."

The boy stares like a guppy, very still—the calm before a storm. But when he finally erupts, he's like a fizzing soda can that Chouchou has shaken one too many times. More noise than force.

"I don't share meals with strange kunoichi!" he hisses. " _Especially not_ Uchiha!"

"Haruno," I amend, saintly and patient.

Itama's not gone and run away, not tried to stick another sharp object into me. This is looking up. So I decide to push my luck.

"Hey, why don't you take me to your clan? I came here to find work, so it'd be great to ally with the Senju clan."

"Ally?" he scoffs.

"Think about it. If I really were an Uchiha, do you think I'd willingly wander into your camp?"

"No," Itama says dubiously.

"Right. I would be going back to the Uchiha in that case." I smile. "If you're not sure, you can tie me up when we're there."

"What use would a nobody hostage be?"

He's internalizing the Haruno bit. Good. "You do kinda owe me," I cajole.

"How so?" Itama glowers. But he picks up his feet and starts walking at a manageable, scuffling pace. I follow.

"Since you tried to kill me a moment ago," I point out.

"I failed, though."

My smile is genuine this time. It's as genuine as it'll ever be, after everything that's happened.

"You know, Itama," I say carefully. "You remind me of a friend."

"Who?"

Perhaps he's trying to catch an Uchiha name. Still, I appreciate the question. There's no one here who knows the people from the future, obviously. But it's less lonely, if I acknowledge those names. To show that it's happened. That I'm real. That this is not all some bad dream. I pause before I answer, giving one final glance at the river bank as we walk further into the trees. My vest lays face up, its insignia muddied by the drifting silt. I can't see the stains from here.

After a heartbeat, I turn to face forward again. The world of the Sengoku Jidai sprawls across the horizon.

"His name's Boruto. And he always had terrible excuses too."

* * *

The history books were clear about one thing:

The Senju and Uchiha had a complicated relationship.

In the Academy, this wasn't further elaborated. There were a lot of things that weren't elaborated. Our parents' generation wanted to expose us to the past, but gradually. As a bookish kid whose dad was away, and whose mom was always working at the hospital, I spent enough time in the library to do free reading on my own.

The Uchiha clan was _preeminent_ , said one book.

At seven, I hadn't the foggiest clue what that meant. Then, in the parade of other history tomes, there appeared more negative (but still subtle) descriptors. Iron-hearted, astringent, pernicious, and adamantine. It was a fascinating vocabulary lesson for any kid, but especially for me. Imagine the last of your clan, at seven years old, searching up the definitions for words describing how your ancestors were dangerous _and dreary._

As for the Senju clan, it was the catalyst for Konohagakure's founding. I knew of the unique properties of the Hashirama trees. I'd seen the Shodaime's wood-style jutsu which led to Captain Yamoto's arthritis. The Nanadaime slipped on the Godaime's "fortieth thirtieth" birthday (after one too many shots of sake) that he'd personally spoken to the Shodaime. It was mysterious. When I'd asked, Naruto-sama told me my Papa had spoken to Lady Tsunade's grandfather more. I never learned if that was true, a metaphor, or just a lie. Too bad I can't ask, now.

Anyhow, this is kind of a big deal for me. Meeting the Senju—the to-be Shodaime—fills my stomach with snake-butterfly hybrids. Neither a dreadful nor elated feeling. Once, I wanted to be Hokage. I still do. To meet the very first is an honor. But for now, I imagine it is best to keep my goals and my identity a secret. Once the Senju know that I mean no harm, perhaps the tenuous alliance between clans, between Senju and Uchiha, will develop naturally, as in my timeline.

After an hour's travel, we meet the edge of the forest.

A wide dirt road comes into view. It's evening, but there are no travelers in sight. No merchant caravans or ronin flashing their dojo-conquests in large white banners, like I've seen a few times previously since I came here. Itama points at the path and explains, for my benefit: "That road up ahead leads to a small trading village under a daimyo's protection."

"That's where your clan is?"

Itama pauses to look at me, seeming to acknowledge that I don't use his clan's name. I get it. Even on a deserted forest road, you don't know who's watching. The stigma of the Senju name is as potent as the Uchiha name.

The boy nods. "Yeah, but not everyone. My immediate family lives there. Some cousins, too."

That's fine. I want to meet the clan head, but even if he's not in this particular village, the Senju meet up regularly to plan their battles. I'm sure I'll be able to track down the current clan head, and the future Shodaime. Sooner or later.

"I'm still new to these parts." We leave the grass to step onto the dirt road. "Are all shinobi organized by clans?"

According to books, local daimyo hire shinobi to take and protect territory from other warring factions. The shinobi hired frequently are known by a familial clan name. Over time, affiliations between daimyo and clans arise. Konoha library only covered the big clans, where someone bothered to record the history.

Certainly, no book had information on the semi-legendary clan I'm looking for.

"Not all are organized by clan," says Itama. "I think the main ones are, at least under Fire territory's strongest daimyo. The ninja that aren't are usually splintered branch families or even small groups, which decided to leave the main branch. It's not very… orthodox."

Itama says the word like someone else taught it to him.

 _Like the Hyuga's main and branch family?_ Much changed after our parents' war ended. Boruto's mom married an outsider. The war hero and soon-to-be Hokage, yes, but an outsider. Stodgier but no less _orthodox_ Hyuga clan traditions needed to die, for Boruto and Himawari to exist. I can see why they would be around in this era, where clan affiliations are paramount.

The topic of conversation makes me think of my own clan. My curiosity gets the better of me.

"Where do the Uchiha live?"

Itama's face darkens. "Dunno. Not far enough."

He mutters _'scum'_ under his breath too, so I don't ask further. He's already doing me a huge favor in leading me to where his family is—which seems to indicate that Itama is either a fool, or has huge confidence in his family's ability to protect itself. I'm not intimidating, but Itama can tell I'm still a ninja, even if I've led him to believe I'm a foreign kunoichi who's just trying to find work and allies in Fire territory.

We walk in silence. Him, distracted by the idea of not making it home in time for dinner. Me, still musing about how I would introduce myself to Itama's family. I'm not the most personable. I'm Papa's daughter, in that way.

"What's _your_ home like?" Itama asks.

I ironed out my story best I could. But it's impossible to fact check the region I picked when I picked it _precisely because_ it's remote and unknow-able. "It's in the north," I say vaguely. "Snows a lot there. There's a whole lot of different hair colors, more than here." Nearly everyone I've met here has black or dark brown hair.

Itama cringes. "Well, my hair's different enough."

"It looks cool." I eye his dichromatic mop. "My mom has naturally pink hair."

"No way!" Itama goggles. "That's super lame."

"No, it's not. She's one of the best kunoichi around!" I smile at the memory of Mama, who was always easy to spot in a crowd, or among the hospital staff when I went looking for her as a toddler.

"Pink is a difficult color to camouflage. Bet she has to perform _henge_ all the time."

"Not all ninja have to go about it the same way." This is something I learned the hard way. "Your hair has nothing to do with how great of a shinobi you can be."

The boy flushes with pleasure. He must have had a strict upbringing. Itama mentioned he has brothers; I'll bet my last pair (only pair) of socks that they're older and very accomplished. Mama told me about Uncle Itachi, and the stress it put on Papa when he was younger.

The sky darkens to a point where we can barely see our noses in front of us. It's early spring, but still cold and dark enough that it could be mistaken for winter. "I can light a fire, if you want," I say, although I'm wary that anyone traveling here could see it and attack. Paranoia is a ninja's greatest asset.

Itama shakes his head. "Nah, I know this road by heart. It's an hour more, tops. Half an hour if we hurry."

Makes sense. Kids may be a lot more independent in the past, but Itama's still barely pubescent. More importantly, he's traveling by himself without any visible gear except a small pouch secured at his waist. He can't have been traveling too far away from home base.

"Why were you by that river today?"

"Probably visited the same place as you did, upstream," he says. He's probably talking about the spot where I told him I picked up my vest. The vest thing was a lie, but I did pass through town.

"The one with the inn?"

"Yeah." Then he clams up.

I have an idea of what Itama wanted from the inn. The same thing I wanted. _Information._ It's likely the Senju have contacts all over the area. Contacts they have to bribe once in a while. Contacts that will let them know should there be any unusual stirrings.

No sooner does the thought finish than a whistling projectile shoot past my face.

A stinging sensation ignites my cheek, then a razor edge presses, into the cut.

 _Trip wires._

"Stop moving and get down!" I hiss, and Itama obeys.

My thoughts are racing. _Who's attacking? Can they see us, in the dark?_

The night is cloudy and the air feels damp with fog. I can make out the visible outline of trees, hear the crackling of the underbrush, feel Itama's quickened breathing by my ear. But I can't see our attackers.

A few more shooting projectiles shoot past overhead, and I can tell which ones hit their targeted trees on the other side. I've always practiced my shuriken throws late into the night, or early before the sun rises. The angles that they're being thrown at show that it's likely our assailant's were in the tree branches to start, but that a few have now moved down to ground level. My breath held, I count the number of _shnks_ I hear. One. Two. Three. Four… I estimate twenty-two projectiles. That's twenty-two invisible blades that could cut us up should Itama and I try to move.

"Trip wires," I murmur to Itama. His slight frame quakes at my side, as he huddles face down into the dirt. I reach out to make sure he's breathing. At contact, my hands become sure, like a medic recognizing a patient. He's drenched in cold sweat.

Besides needing him for my Senju introduction, I feel strangely protective of the boy. Sure, this isn't the most ideal of situations, but why is he so scared? Shouldn't he know defense strategies, if he's already being sent on errands almost a day's travel away?

"Itama," I mouth to him, pressing my face very close so that our attackers don't hear us. I hope we look like two bumps along the road, but it's any minute now, before we're discovered. Any second, if these guys can see in the dark. The moon overhead is clouded, thank goodness, but that too would pass.

"Snap out of it, Itama," I breathe. "What's wrong?"

"K-Kawarama."

I don't know who Kawarama is, but if it's not these guys who want us dead, then it's the least of my concerns right now. Footsteps approach the road, the sound changing as they venture from grass to dirt road. "Who're these guys? What are their techniques?" I whisper fiercely. Itama's eyes are glazed, but he gasps out:

"Hagoromo clan."

The name strikes fear into my own heart. I know that name. _From where do I know that name?_

"They ally with the Uchiha. A-And recently killed my brother Kawarama, with these wires," Itama confides shakily. Sweat is beginning to shine on his face. I realize the moon's back out.

The moon.

The Otsutsuki.

The reason I'm here.

Hagoromo. Otsutsuki. _Otsutsuki Hagoromo?_

The phrase tickles my brain for some reason, like some half-formed clue. Like an icy slush that meanders through every capillary and fails to jolt all the neurons. Itama has given me something important. The Uchiha alliance is a new piece of information. Do my own ancestors have a hand in bringing the downfall of all shinobi-kind? I don't have time to think further on it now. The footsteps are alarmingly close, yet, neither of us can stand without being cut into meat cubes or slices.

Whatever the deli arrangement, I prefer myself in one piece.

"Itama," I whisper. "Close your eyes."

He looks at me, confused.

"Trust me," I say.

He's helpless right now, psychologically, trapped in the memories of his brother's death. I know how that feels. To be trapped in memory. Maybe that's why I'm doing this in front of Itama. Should he see me in a real battle, then my meeting with the Senju heads will likely never happen. But if this Hagoromo clan is a lead to the Otsutsuki, then I'm already halfway to my main goal. _Eliminating every last one._ I couldn't do it in the future. But I can try, now.

At the beginning, rather than the end.

"And keep them closed," I grit out. Finally, Itama shuts his eyes.

Then my own start to bleed red.

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 _tbc_

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* * *

 _Disclaimer: Kishimoto owns, and the rest of us graze._

 _Notes: this is planned to be easy T-reading, with action, character-growth, perhaps romance, and some historical and political themes. The tweaks to canon at the outset are little bros outliving canon ages of death._ _ _ _There is a backstory for Sarada, which is hinted, and will be revealed more plainly later._ _Still debating pairings, though this isn't a romance-centric fic. Thoughts?___

 _With that said, I hope to do Sarada, and the rest of the fun crew of the Sengoku Jidai, justice._

 _Onward, and thanks for joining!  
_


	2. panel 2

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When Boruto and I were twelve, we both wanted to save the world. Our declared methods, however, were different. First, I'd laid a child's claim to Hokage. Then on a day overlooking the village from Hokage Monument, he said he wanted the supporting role. Our relationship had shed its skin and molted into something deeper. Unfortunately, Boruto proceeded to show his _support_ in odd ways—calling me names, telling me I was too inflexible to get jounin, pulling stupid, risky stunts on missions.

And, just once, when I pulled my own stunt and nearly died, _he cried._

That was the first time I felt, acutely, that missions have consequences for the ones left behind. It's ironic that I realized it only then. Mama and I had been living with the consequences of Papa's mission since before I was born. But because Papa had _always_ been gone on a mission, I'd not fully considered missions' aftereffects on those around _me_. That is, until Team Konohamaru voiced their opinions—Sensei, by hysterically nagging, Mitsuki, solemnly nodding, and Boruto, as noted, by _sobbing._ You don't want to see it, trust me. That can't be unseen.

Itama is not my teammate.

But he bears traits of Team Konohamaru—determined, foolish, compassionate. Most of all, this boy knows loss. One thing is clear in my mind. I don't want Senju Itama to die. And I sure as hell am not going to let him die by a clan potentially related to the Otsutsuki.

My vision cuts through the fog, as my eyes glow incandescent.

I'm glad I've chosen to help Itama. It's assuring that I can still care for people. Protect them. But it's not as if my eyes immediately render me superhuman. There's all sorts of common misconceptions about the Sharingan. For one, my eyes don't actually allow me to see in the dark. But I'll admit: it's as good as, during shinobi battles.

Four figures. Three adult men; one woman, judging by the size and shape of their chakra flows. Every spot they occupy is a place that has no trip wires.

I chew my lip as I dissect what I know about their abilities. It's taken them this long to find Itama and me. Even if they have excellent memories, the dark, foggy night should require they be cautious about tripping on their own wires. Why do they move into the road so casually, if they can't see in the dark? I squint, and discover the reason.

Threads of chakra weave across the road in thin silk threads, along every trip wire, shining faintly as its pulse slid along the wires like electrical current. The enemies' chakra networks stand out in the inky night like the glowing neon signs around Konoha's pachinko district. This is a great technique in terms of the advantages it would usually give them in battle.

But in a battle against _me_ , this means I've as good as won.

Gingerly, I position my body slightly on top of Itama's. This is partly to shield him, and yes, I admit it, partly to make sure he doesn't peek and see me using the Sharingan, glowing in the night like the red-eyed demon he seems to think all Uchiha are.

The clouds cover the moon and stars again.

I strike.

The kunai I'd kept from Itama's attack is in my palm. Maneuvering my hands along the cool dirt, I crawl away so that I'm not next to Itama, but stay very low so as not to cut myself on trip wires. I don't want the trajectory of my toss to give away Itama's position. Once I'm four feet down the road, I prepare to lace my kunai with fire.

Literally, fire.

The _katon_ licks greedily over the kunai. I've wrapped the metal at the blunt end with a torn rag from my sock. The fabric's dirty and sweat-soaked and catches fire easily.

Before the red and orange embers can travel to my fingers, I hurl the thing. The projectile moves like a hissing flare in the night. A tiny meteor shooting down the road, straight into the enemy's heart. The man who is my target stumbles. With my Sharingan, I see his flesh meet the first trip wire.

Now, if I'm correct— _ah_. There it is.

Instead of slicing the soft flesh and muscle, the trip wire collapses with the tension of his body falling against it. My hunch is right. These shinobi are wearing some sort of wire-resistant armor, as extra insurance. I watch as the wire sags, which in turn distorts the shape of the entire webbed network, bending and distending the other wires that weave through the trees across the road. Several intersecting wires grate together. Two of them snap, right above Itama's head, which gives him the freedom to move. I'm no Shikamaru-sama, nor even Shikadai, but I'm a fair hand at battle analysis.

There's other consequences to my action, though. The other three Hagoromo clan members know where I am, and they're rushing straight for me.

"Itama! Jump!"

I can only pray he hears, and has the capacity to follow.

Because my next move is earth-shattering.

It's not the ground underneath the enemy's feet that I'm after. Yes, the tremors along the road are impressive, and the Hagoromo shinobi halt their movements, as if frightened that a fissure will open up underneath. But I'm aiming for a different _angle_ , so to speak. The trees on either side of the road must uproot, or at least tilt enough. It's difficult but not impossible to control the shockwaves from my punch, to forcefully twist the angle of the tree trunk. As the soil beneath rifts, the trees tilt, grudgingly, with groaning trunks and whispering foliage in the dark.

Several more trip wires bend.

 _Is it enough?_ The wires attached to the re-angled trees should tangle the enemy. Unfortunately, only one of them, the first one I made stumble, has crashed to the ground with a set of wires haphazardly around his torso and legs. The rest of the enemy have clued in to the dangers posed by a prey turned predator.

"Who are you?" someone calls. "Just give us the boy. We won't kill him like his brother."

"At least, not right away," another barks out a laugh.

I see Itama's chakra spike. His circulating chakra system is tiny, compared to the other figures. In fact, these remaining three individuals are all easily twice my size. _Hold on, Itama_ , I pray. _It'll be done soon._ The enemy may be talking smack, but they're also terrified. I see it in their chakra flow. They must still be confused as to how one punch can cause a localized earthquake.

Once upon a time, I might have let these guys leave. But I have several reasons to keep them, today.

I have nothing but my bare fists to fight with. I can't launch another punch without worrying about the ground beneath Itama's feet also giving way. But now that I've messed up the trip wire network, I can gather enough speed for hand to hand combat. Fight the enemy head on. After all, years of sparring need some outlet, and I doubt any of these guys have the gentle fist technique, nor extendable arms. However, they do turn out to have other, more standard jutsu.

Several bunshin appear in the dark.

Fifty percent of being a shinobi is the fundamentals. Stuff they teach you in the Academy, perfected to kage-level, could make you a devastating opponent. So many don't bother with honing fundamentals anymore since the advent of ninjutsu technology. But Papa always believed in old-fashioned guts, even if he doesn't say it aloud, and no one could yet replicate Mama and Lady Tsunade's chakra control with tech. So I grew up indoctrinated about the fundamentals, while facing new age tools that replicated at least jounin-level strength.

Therefore, I make several bunshin too. No simple copycat trick will win, but there's a key difference here. I can tell their bunshin apart perfectly. They can't with mine.

I drive in with a vengeance, my feet hitting the road with minimal sound. Normally, other nin would flee. But the repositioned trip wires, their bunshin, and the absence of light, make them slow. Slow enough for me to practice my sparring kata on them. There's a reason the Hagoromo are allied with the Uchiha, and not against, I find out. My Sharingan puts them at a devastating disadvantage, both in detecting their offense and breaking through their defense.

One down. His three bunshin pop.

Two down. Four bunshin.

The third's bunshin popped the minute he saw his comrades fall. I wait for him as he mourns for a brief, fleeting moment. But the pounding in my veins urges my hand across his shoulder, against his spine, and he crumples in on himself, like the rest.

The fourth… I need to keep the fourth alive. To interrogate. But when I turn around, I realize the man has opened the high collar of his armor and walked straight into his own wire.

I hiss a rude word.

Not because I've just witnessed the Hagoromo's last act of defiance.

But because, at the other end of the road, Itama's staring straight at me with wide eyes.

* * *

It's not the first time I've seen that haunted look.

Nevertheless, it sends shivers up my spine, like I've been splashed, full-body with a bucket of ice water. I stand stock still and wait for Itama to come near.

Then I realize: he still can't see if there are any wires.

I comprehend what a large amount of faith he's placed in me, during this fight. Huddling when I tell him to huddle. Jumping when I tell him to jump. And relying on a near-stranger who he had first thought held ties to the Uchiha.

Well, he was right about that one.

"Itama?" I try. Simultaneously, I tamp down my expectations.

But I don't make my Sharingan stop spinning. I know how I might look. The moon's out again, and everything under its glow gets shiny and soft. The trees are rustling even in their lopsided state. On the road, there's now four bodies strewn about. Even though it was quick, almost like an assassination, there's still blood on my hands. Metaphorically.

"I'm sorry for lying to you," I say, just loud enough so the breeze carries the words to him.

Itama struggles. I see it in his chakra.

I realize again that it matters to me, what he thinks. He's the first to let me in. Let me follow him to his home, even. If we were both lying to each other, those lies were still sweet. To me, Itama's more than a provisional ally and less than a friend.

If I were someone else, someone more loving, more sensitive, maybe I would know what to say. But I'm me. I'm here to survive. And I've done that. I will continue to do that, with or without Itama.

After what feels like an age, I see his chakra settle.

"Can you see the wires?" he calls from down the road, soft as a whisper.

This is not an acceptance, but it's a truce.

"Yeah." My throat is dry. "Yeah, I can."

The enemy chakra lacing the wires is fading. Winks of it still glint like gossamer as soft moonlight peaks through the clouds. I avoid being spliced in two as I maneuver over to where Itama's standing. Together, we move past the rest of the wires that are still hanging onto the trees, like ghostly spider webs under the pale moon.

I almost jump into the last dangling trip wire when Itama speaks.

"I hate that crescent moon. Kawarama died on a night like this."

Again, his voice is so quiet. And again, I don't know what to say. _I hate the moon, too? Aliens from the moon came to kill all my friends?_ How do I say such a thing, without sounding like a complete loon? Although, being crazy may be the least of my worries. Being sane and dangerous and _an Uchiha_ could be much worse. I try something comforting, like, _sorry about your brother_ , but all I get out is:

"I don't want to see my loved ones' deaths anymore, either."

"What happened?"

It's enough, with the lies. Itama will either help me or hurt me. But I'm tired of hurting myself.

"A clan no one knew existed killed them. I'm searching now for a lead."

Itama sucks in a breath, but he continues trudging forward.

"They call themselves the Otsutsuki," I add.

All I receive is silence.

Finally—

"Who'd they kill? Your Uchiha family?"

"Just one Uchiha." _Papa._ I swallow, hard. "As for the rest, they were all people I love, but they came from all different clans."

"All different?"

"Yeah. My friends. But we're like a family, together."

Itama's silent for a long, terrifying, pause, and I turn away, so I don't see his face when he decides whether or not to trust me. In the distance, I can make out the faintest twinkling of light. Hearth fires, probably. If there's any time to shuck me, it's now. Itama's probably realized what a danger it is to bring me home. He's gonna end me here and now. He's shorter and smaller, but he has several more shuriken within easy reach in his pouch, which would do a number on my unprotected neck, just a foot away.

"You should meet my brother."

I blink, confused.

 _Oh, I see. Like Kawarama? In the afterlife?_ I wait for the shuriken in my neck.

"Hashirama," Itama finishes.

My breath swoops out of my chest.

 _Senju Hashirama._

Itama hasn't physically attacked me, but the information's almost like a physical blow. I thought I'd lost my rare chance at the Otsutsuki lead with the Hagoromo. But now I get to meet the future Shodaime Hokage. He's Itama's _brother._ This is more than I dreamed. If anyone can help me, it's the god of the shinobi.

"You think he'd see me? I have Uchiha blood." More importantly, I have Uchiha eyes. That can kill people and stuff.

Itama nods stiffly. But his words are sincere. "You saved me."

 _Is that how it works? Because I was saving myself too. And I was trying to interrogate the Hagoromo for leads.  
_

I frown, bite my cheek. Anything to try to hide the smile blooming. Paranoia is a ninja's greatest asset, remember?

"Really?"

"Yes, really. I'm agreeing also 'cause you say the same things as Hashirama. You guys should meet." Itama pauses again, as if weighing his words. "He'd want to meet you."

 _I can't believe this. Senju Hashirama. Maybe I get to meet Tobirama, too?_ _And the rest of Konoha's founding members? Will they be like the stories?_ I think, almost giddily. I quickly sober. If I recall correctly, most Senju didn't get along with Uchiha. Maybe something ticked someone off, historically. Maybe I can change that.

I know it's big-headed of me.

But unless I change something, history would just rewrite itself. And I know how that all ends.

It's not pretty.

* * *

As it turns out, Itama's idea of me meeting Hashirama is simply that—just Hashirama. It's not that Itama doesn't like me (or at least tolerate me) at this point. Rather, elder Senju clan members are dispersed between neighboring villages. As for Itama's father, the Senju patriarch himself, he is a busy man who's extremely hard to get an appointment with.

So we start with Hashirama. But that's hardly easy booking either. Last night, we temporarily parted ways. Itama promised a "sure-fire plan" so no one in town gossips about the Senju heir's meeting a foreign girl. I guess people are gossips no matter the era.

"But how does _this_ play into the meet up scenario?" I grumble.

I'm swathed in a large pile of expensive-looking fabric. Anyone can see my resemblance with those dolls young girls get on their _hinamatsuri_ ceremonies. Except I'm the angry-faced doll that no one in their right mind would buy for their little girl.

"It does," Itama demures. "Just trust me."

Carefully, so as not to disturb the seamstress' work, I raise one of my arms, encased in at least ten layers of woven brocade. Once upon a time, I could afford this. After several failed housing leases, the Uchiha-Haruno household actually saved enough money to be well-off. Papa's mission payment in government bonds also matured, and after that, we were rich. Not as wealthy as Boruto's family, and not touching the Daimyo's son. But still enough to afford fancy, traditional clothes for the social occasions that we were obligated to attend.

But I haven't a penny to my name, in this era. Plus, I doubt I'll be invited to any publicity-type social occasions. _Is meeting Hashirama an extravagant, public affair?_ _Doesn't seem like that would be good for either of us._

"We should stop wasting this nice merchant's time."

But Itama's busy dictating the three dimensions of my rather sad (lack of) curves with alarming accuracy. The seamstress' assistant is jotting them down, all smiles. She's probably getting a huge commission from this. When she finally goes into the back of the store to search for another bundle of fabric that's way outta my pay grade, my arm strikes out like a snake and hauls Itama in by his ear. He's kind of adorable as he gives an indignant squawk.

"O-Ouch! _Uchiha scum!_ " but there's no actual fury in his tone.

"Watch it!" I hiss. "We're in your territory, remember?"

"Oops." He claps his hands over his mouth.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" I let the sarcasm linger.

His smug look comes back. "Just trust me!" He again parrots my instruction to him, the night before. "This is all part of my brilliant idea. You can meet my brother and maybe even my dad without anyone getting suspicious."

Then the elder seamstress arrives with a stack of needles, and we stop bickering.

I'm not sure of Itama's notions, even if he is actually from this time period. In _my_ era, a girl dressed in a formal kimono going to meet a man for the first time translates to lots and lots of family nosiness. Mama and Aunt Ino _live_ for this kind of stuff. And I can imagine Chouchou and Himawari's faces, if they could see me wearing a freakin' princess outfit, going to meet Lady Tsunade's grandpa.

The town around us is smaller than the village upstream. Still, this place is sizable for something in this era. Last night, I stayed at the inn with a couple of coins I borrowed from Itama. I now owe him more than I can repay. I would only continue to be in debt if this meeting with his brother actually came through. _Which it must._ I've been rehearsing my lines all night— _say something casual, Sarada, don't start off with eliminating the Otsutsuki, tell him a compliment that doesn't reveal he gets promoted to god-status in later history, etc._

Itama had found me again this morning, and, after shoving a doughy manju at me, we went to our first stop. To my surprise, it was the seamstress', a dainty little shop located in the nicest part of town. Sturdy wooden pillars frame the entrance to all the shops on this street. There are conspicuous restaurants and tea houses next door. Maybe I would meet Hashirama in one of those.

"How am I going to pay for this?" I ask Itama as the elderly seamstress starts sewing with gusto. "I've already borrowed money from you."

"I told you, this is all thanks for saving me."

Despite the boy's gracious words, I can tell he's enjoying watching me get flustered as I'm pricked with needles. Multiple times. The seamstress is a nice enough old lady, but her eyesight's going, and I think I'd prefer the assistant, even if it means she has to giggle and coo at everything Itama says.

"Okay, but this?" I hold up a silky sleeve again. You would think I'm strange, getting insulted by this gorgeous outfit. I know my old clothes were all ripped, but wasn't this too much of an upgrade?

"Actually," Itama says, grinning. "This town has several businesses which are under Senju protection. We're hired for our services, and they—"

"They give you free merchandise," I finish, as it clicks. No wonder the octogenarian seamstress had bowed to a little kid less a fifth her age, when we'd entered. And no wonder she and her assistant were really pulling out all the stops, to make sure I looked like a freaking daimyo's daughter, and not the impoverished time traveler that I am.

"Yup. We always try to make it an even exchange, though." Itama bounces on his feet, weaving around me as if examining a piece of merchandise. He makes approving sounds.

"Besides, no one really uses this shop for anything fancy since Mom died."

Now I feel a bit sad, but Itama seems well-adjusted enough. I guess people in this era _are_ tough. Another prick interrupts my thoughts, this time to the soft inside of my knee.

I channel some Chouchou in my nosiness. "Don't your brothers need this for their wives or something?"

"They're not married." Itama cocks his head quizzically. "Why? You wanna marry one?"

I sputter, and nearly kick the poor old woman trying to hem my dress.

"You're a _you-know-what_ , so I gotta say it's unlikely," Itama assesses matter-of-factly. "Hashirama's a weirdo, but Tobirama definitely won't elope for _you._ But don't worry." He chirps at the end. "I still like you."

There's so many veiled insults slipped in there I don't know which one to process. _A you-know-what._ I almost laugh. It's like Itama wants to trumpet to the world that I've got some sort of contagious leprosy. Maybe I do. It's a leprosy that makes your eyes go red with three tomoe.

Finally, my dress is fully hemmed and fitted. Apprehensive, I allow myself one test twirl. Ah. Thankfully, I'm not at risk of tripping over myself as I walk, kunoichi poise be damned. The outer layer of silk is a deep maroon, rather like my vest, and the inner haori is the color of a mountaintop night sky, flecked with bits of gold thread. All in all, way too high class for me.

"Tell me again why you think this will work," I say dubiously.

"Only the wealthiest patrons can get the private booth in the tea house where I'm taking you and bro. Everywhere else is public, and that's where shinobi use to gather intel from unsuspecting passerby."

 _Huh._ It makes sense. I can hardly expect the past to be an egalitarian paradise when my era was no better. No one raises an eyebrow when the wealthiest mingle with the strongest shinobi. People may look, for a spell, but then they dismiss it as the same-old, same-old. Daimyo's children cavorting with the Hokage's. Some things don't change with time. But surely, there can't be crowds of powerful shinobi holding meetings in tea houses _all_ the time.

"Where do you and your brothers usually go?"

Itama gives me a look that speaks plainly: _Do you even need to ask?_

"Your clan's own houses," I whisper, realizing as soon as I'd asked.

"Yes." Itama nods. "And that's invite only."

* * *

A feeble kowtow is the best I can muster to the elderly seamstress while I'm in my thirty-pound mound of fabric. Then, I follow Itama out the door. Our destination is the tea shop a few buildings down. Now, I can see that Itama has indeed planned this meticulously. Everything is located within a short walking distance, to minimize the time that I can be seen, but also show me off enough so that people will think a wealthy patron has come to request a mission. Those who don't want to disturb the most powerful in the land, naturally veer their eyes away from my face, looking instead at the ornate brocade of my sleeve.

There's no _henge_ in the world that can replicate the swish of smooth cloth, the rumple of colorful silk layers. Real wealth is not something a poor shinobi can easily duplicate, or else shinobi would be known as the richest in the land. We're not. We're just hired hands.

Although the Senju may be more than that, in this era. It's hard not to notice this town's orderliness, its happy and well-fed populace. Though smaller than the previous town I visited in terms of the number of business, there's a unique sense of peace here. I realize I haven't seen a single beggar in the streets. There are no impoverished farmers, come to ask for work after his harvest failed. A passerby wheeling a cartful of what look to be giant sake jugs seems to recognize the Senju boy, and they wave at each other.

"Does your clan run this town?" I ask Itama, who's doing a jaunty walk down town. "Or are you chummy with the village leader?"

"Oh," Itama says, like he forgot a trifle. "The village leader is my dad."

Before I start thinking that Hashirama's wrongly credited with starting hidden villages, Itama explains. A number of elders vote, in a council, and elect a chairman each year. Every three years or so, it's a member of the Senju clan. There are rumors that in another three years, it will be Hashirama.

"He must have quite a reputation, then, your brother."

"He's well-loved," Itama says proudly. "But impulsive. So they're not letting him take over yet, even though he's been of age for a year now."

"When are you considered of age?"

"Seventeen."

So Senju Hashirama is about two years my senior. I turn sixteen soon, when spring first starts to show.

"Young Master Itama!"

Both Itama and I turn. It's the seamstress' assistant, running over with a scroll in her hand. "I forgot to give you this!" she puffs when she catches up, and puts the scroll in Itama's hand. "It's a message from your brother." Itama gives it a once over. I notice he's suspicious about these things, even in his own village. Maybe this place is not as safe and insular as I thought. Slowly, Itama's fingers peel back the parchment. Then he turns to me.

"It's not anything big, but it is urgent." Itama digs into his pouch and gives me a whole ingot worth of money. I've learned to recognize the currency. This would buy a month's worth of grain. Before I protest, he silences me with a wag of his pointer finger.

"Go and get private suite number three in that inn on the corner. Everything should be arranged on his end," he instructs meaningfully. His eyes dart from me to the assistant, who's waiting silently. I reassess her. Rigid, pulled back hair. Slender, pale hands. Calloused in more ways than I've seen ordinary sewing aficionados' in my era. Maybe she, like much else in this village, is more than she seems.

Itama finishes in clipped tones. "Ask for Kawato-san."

 _You're seriously going to leave me here?_ That's what I want to say but I don't. I've been left alone many times throughout my life. I'm used to handling things on my own.

"Okay," I say. "Just come back soon."

I stand there in the middle of the slightly muddy road, in my gorgeous kimono paid by a little boy and his rich-ass family, wondering what on earth that was about. Several passerby start staring at me longer than I would like.

So I hike up my skirts, and do the world's most unlady-like march the rest of the way to the tea shop.

* * *

On the outside, the tea shop is a drab but sturdy four-storied thing with solid wooden planks and some tough paint and lacquer, made to withstand the elements. There are lanterns hanging from the wooden trellises that are made of crepe-like paper. The red bulbous things remind me of the new years festivals back in Konoha, my time. Beyond that, this tea shop is austere, with no-nonsense uniform shingles that look able to withstand a hurricane.

But from the inside, this place is the most elaborate building I've ever seen. In any era. All five senses are invaded, with my nose as the first target. The whole place smells like incense, thick and heady. The pungent smoky smell hits my nostrils and travels straight through my system, before I'm accosted by another, sharper citrus scent. Perfume.

I look down at the source: a tiny, pixie-like woman. The woman could be anywhere from twenty years old to fifty. She's got severe gray streaks in her hair but an angular face with alabaster skin. My sandaled feet skip back before I accidentally step on her. She shuffles over to a tall reception table piled with jade and gold items that look too expensive to be suitable for display at the public entrance.

"Name? Suite?"

This is a no-nonsense establishment. I like that.

"Itama," I offer, because that's what Itama told me to say. "Private Suite Three."

"For?"

"Kawato-san," I say mechanically.

Nothing about her stony expression changes. Uncertainly, I plunk down on the reception desk the ingot Itama gave me. It's kind of sweaty, because walking in this kimono turns out to be hard work.

When I offer nothing else, the woman finally looks me over. Her eyes are quick and darting. They assess the outfit I'm in, then my face, as if all my secrets were written in my skin. Well, in this era, it probably is. I'm suddenly grateful to my mother for all the years she forced me to wear sunscreen outside. Skin cancer aside, an even complexion is serving me well, to pass as a wealthy noble person in the Sengoku Jidai.

"Hm, Lord Kawato," the pixie-woman demures, her severe head of hair bobbing in my line of vision as she shuffles daintily away from the reception area.

I follow—her five miniscule steps to two of my own—and this seems to be the right move, since not one of the elaborately robed figures on the ground floor leaps up to stop me with a saber, dagger, or something equally kitschy in character (my classmate Sumire and I watched a lot of period drama movies during our Academy years). This seems like the kind of place where old antiques can be taken off the walls and thrown as weapons.

As I follow, I wonder who Kawato-san is.

Maybe Kawato-san is Hashirama.

The heart pounding restarts.

We move up the stairs. The steps creak like a public service announcement until we arrive on the ones leading to the topmost floor. Then, they're as silent as a whisper. There's no creaking at all, which is eerie since the pixie-woman also moves with the quiet finesse of an experienced ninja. Everything about the ambience up here is muffled and secretive.

"Here you are."

The wooden door in front of us bears a tiny wooden placard with the suite number. I recognize this wooden grain as Hashirama bark, which makes me all the more nervous. Did Itama lead me to some shinobi nest, where everyone was actually a Senju affiliate more than capable of killing me with the wooden surroundings?

"Do I go in now?" I had expected her to usher me in.

"Do what you want," she says cryptically, and shuffles away.

I've been through numerous tests in my life. Some of them involve unfair twists, where docile things like tea pots and bonbons were actually instruments of torture that you had to avoid to save your head and your grade point average. So it's engrained in me that you don't open doors unless you know what's behind them.

Still, I see no other option, so I knock.

No answer. I inch up to the side of the wall, almost hugging it with my back. Then, the tips of my fingers creak open the door. There's another sliding screen of thin paper, so I push that aside as well, and, then peek inside with the side of my head pressed to the door frame. One wrong move—one inch too far—and I'm dead.

The room is empty.

I breathe a sigh of relief and enter. Now, _I_ can go ahead and lay booby traps all over the room, for the next visitor. Doesn't matter that it's Hashirama who's supposed to come, and I'm supposed to play nice. This is a dangerous place, where all the locals seem well-versed in shinobi protocol. If I'm to prove myself, the first step is defending myself.

Shuffling around the room, I search for places behind ornate silk cushions and sliding tatami mats where I can prepare a defense. Here, my beautiful clothes fit right in. I understand more and more why Itama decided to put me in these clothes. If I had worn my previous garb, I would be devastatingly out of place, not fit to even pose as a servant. Unfortunately, underneath all the lavish fabric, I'm still kunai and shuriken-less.

I really do start contemplating breaking off a sharp piece of jade or some other pointy ornamental décor attached to the wall or furniture. There's a winking portrait of a pig on the far wall, overlaid with pink-hued mother of pearl, that has little spiky studs along the borders, for some reason. But I figure I shouldn't cost Itama another ingot to pay for replacements. The tatami mat in the far right corner slides away, and I move it next to a large pile of cushions. There's a bump on the floor, where a dagger or short sword heel seems to fit into the notch. There's no dagger there now.

Feeling empty, I replace the tatami and settle in to wait. I rehearse my lines from last night. _What should I say, to the god of shinobi?_ Part of me wishes Itama would come back before Hashirama shows. _What's in the scroll that seamstress' assistant was carrying?_ A mission? Or his father, scolding him for being late getting back last night. None of the options really match, and I stop the pointless guessing game.

I'm staring absently into the placid face of the pearl pig when a knock interrupts my thoughts. The shoji screen is strategically closed again, so I'll be able to see a silhouette, beforehand.

"Come in," I call.

There's a long pause. Perhaps Hashirama is a gentleman. Or he's expecting me to go and open the door for him. Fat chance. I have no dagger and no will to expose myself in a nest full of disguised shinobi. I wouldn't have opened the door even if I were expecting my own father.

The door is silent as it swings inward, just like the fourth-floor stairs.

I imagine the face I've seen all my life. The first one from the left, on Hokage Monument. No one ever thinks they'll meet the ones starting left of Lady Tsunade, the Godaime. I steel myself because the heart pounding has started again. _Would he help me? Would I need to explain to him, what happened to Konoha?_

The paper screen slides.

"Hime?"

This man does not resemble Hokage Monument's Senju Hashirama in the slightest. I've heard artists and sculptors take liberties, but he has short, scruffy hair the color of the paper lanterns outside. He's wide in girth and tall, with placid, hazel-grey eyes. I'm reminded of a large mountain cat that's gotten lazy and old.

 _He called me princess. Why?_ I shuffle back toward the cushions and assume a demure pose.

"You are?" I ask, trying to keep the pinch from my voice.

"Kawato," he answers curtly, never meeting my eyes as he scans everywhere else.

In the next second, he's hauling me to my feet, his fingers grasping roughly at my chin as he inspects my face. _Is this the skin test again? Am I passable?_

"K-Kawato-san, don't..."

I never finish, as his other hand yanks down on the shoulder of my kimono. _Is this really a tea shop?_ I know nothing about the past, I realize. As my head spins, doubt creeps into my heart about Itama's good will toward me. _Is this about payment?_

My eyes glaze over, seeing everything and nothing, watching the fancy pearl pig watch me, and then, all I see is red. Kawato's body is heavy and his heart beats against mine like a war drum.

Then his heart stops.

So does mine.

For a moment.

(I unclench my fist, from its burrow deep in Kawato's gut.)

Because my eyes see red again, in a totally different way.

"Papa?" I choke out, because if this is a memory, another symptom, it's too cruel. I feel something wet on my cheek.

The next second passes, and the spell is broken for me. The spinning red eyes at the door are like Papa's non-Rinnegan eye. Nothing else but the hair and eye color resembles Papa. Nor does this man resemble Hashirama, except for the silhouette of long hair and broad shoulders.

The second visitor lets the broken end of the jade wall ornament drop from his fingers. Its other tip is embedded deep into Kawato's back.

"So, you're her."

His voice is terse and commanding, with a sullenness I know all too well. It's a quality Mama always teased me about, and told me belongs to all of my clan. I never thought I would confirm it beyond Papa and myself, but it seems the day has come quicker than I could have ever expected.

My second visitor is an Uchiha.

.

.

.

 _tbc_

.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu: I imagine Itama's an adorable little bean, but we'll find out what really happened soon enough._

 _Also, to clarify, Hagoromo is a minor clan contemporaneous to others in this era, according to Naruto wikia. No relation to Otsutsuki Hagoromo, except the coincidental name.  
_


	3. panel 3

.

.

.

There are two ways to die: unconscious, or going down fighting. The rest are just derivative.

The Uchiha man sweeps into the room, kicking Kawato's limp body away with detached efficiency. I shift my weight and prepare to introduce myself. Suddenly, his arm loops around me—silk, brocade, and all. I'm not a substantial person, but I'm not a wisp either, especially with the heavy layers of cloth. Yet, he holds me under the crook of his arm as if I weighed no more than a feather.

Well, I'm not going to be a _cooperative_ feather.

The quick succession of events makes my heart thud in my ears. Or maybe that's the blood rushing to my head, as I struggle inside. Clansman or not, this is not the time for a reunion. I'm here to meet the future Shodaime, and this is Senju territory. I can smell a conflict brewing: one that doesn't bode well for Konoha ever coming about.

 _Here is the ultimate question:_ Do I shout for help? On _this_ particular scene? Two Uchiha festooned with a rich, dead man at their feet. _No._ The town would sooner lock us both up and write a murder mystery, than ask for my testimony.

I start civilly.

"Who are you?" This is as civil as I can be, while dangled under someone's arm. "Put me down."

I hardly expect words to suffice, but this man gives even Papa's stoicism a run for its money. When my wriggling gets too fierce, he merely shifts me to his other arm. I stare at the tatami, perplexed as I continue to hover parallel in the air. Then I crane my neck.

There must be some further clue here as to his identity. Something beyond _dangerous, dreary, and an Uchiha._ Now, I don't expect my ancestors to sit in a circle and sing kumbaya, but I also don't want history books' accounts of the Uchiha to be _completely accurate._

The man sports clunky armor, the kind that's showcased in museums, covered in antiseptic orange light and valued at astronomical sums. Upon closer inspection, his armor looks dirty, unlike the money-fetching museum type. It's covered in tiny splotches of rust and blood. Could be my blood, too, soon enough.

I assess the rest of his armor for chinks, find none, so I twist and clamp my fingers onto his boots. The hide of the boot is thick and rubbery, so it's hard to get purchase. Otherwise, I would have twisted his ankle already. As it is, I leave only some sad, dull scratches with my blunt nails that Itama didn't bother to beautify this morning.

"Why are you here?" I sigh after my effort reaps little reward. "You've got the wrong person."

His mouth opens in (slow, measured) motion, lifting his resting scowl. I realize the Uchiha man is actually _young._

"You're here to meet the Senju, are you not?"

"I'm not." _I am.  
_

His stony look is immovable. "You're coming with me."

Right, then.

I do the only sensible thing a girl my age would do when accosted.

I aim a kick to his crotch.

And because I'm nice, I kick with less than full power. In case he's my ancestor. However, potential great-great-great Uchiha grandpapa doesn't seem to appreciate my magnanimity.

Because, at this moment, he hurls us both out the window.

* * *

Fine chakra control doesn't do much for certain kinds of defensive immunity. One example is defense against surprise attacks to the gut. When the Uchiha man crashes a punch to the pit of my stomach, I'm out cold.

The next thing I register is that I'm bound to someone's back, moving at high speeds. I also register that I'm still wearing all my infinitesimal layers, because the breeze is nice against my stuffy collar.

 _He could have at least left out the thickest layer_ , I think vaguely. _Is this the chivalry that died before my era?_ Then, I black out again.

I dream.

There's an Otsutsuki eye in front of my face. It looms wide and the palm connects with my face. I hear Boruto's shout of pain, and my lungs are suddenly on fire, as I try to call out to him. But I can't. I'm being sapped of all my energy. Why did I let them get away? From a sea of flames, I wake and see Papa's Rinnegan. Am I in the future? In the past? My eyes are wet and I don't know if it's tears or blood that leaks out.

A jolt.

I wake for real this time.

My whole body chafes when I try to move. I quickly realize I'm immobilized from the chin down, in sitting position. Thick cords of rope are twisted around me, on top of my heavy kimono, I'm like some ornately wrapped present. _Only, who's the recipient?_

What portion of the room I can see is dim and sparse. I face a blank wall that looks to be made of wood and resin. I can't see any door, but I notice a draft from behind me. Then, like a suspense film, a face juts into my line of vision: the Uchiha abductor.

"Lunch," he intones.

I'm hungry for more than food. A cold lump settles in my chest, and I force myself to drag my eyes to the man. Now that I'm not tucked under his armpit, I reexamine his face, his shaggy hair, made shaggier after the journey, and his eyes, now two black orbs that seem beyond his years. He has refined features, but a sharp expression that hint at years of battle.

In stark contrast to his warrior aura, his right hand proffers a boiled, half-peeled potato of some sort.

"Eat."

My stomach voices consent.

But my pride does not. Temper flaring, I reassess my situation. I'm not eating anything from the hand of the man that knocked me unconscious and kidnapped me like I was a sack of those weird potatoes he's offering now. Grudgingly, pragmatism and reason cajole their way into my brain again. Besides hunger, I realize I am very thirsty.

"Water," I say.

The abductor doesn't respond, merely leaves, and takes the potato with him. I feel an odd sense of loss, as the routine brisk breeze fans behind me. I imagine he's moved through a doorway without a second glance.

 _What a welcome I'm getting from my own clan_. I'm reevaluating my take on Konoha history books. Somewhere inside me, perhaps, I've held on to the childish thought that fellow Uchiha would be instantly likable, instantly recognizable. It's complicated - I wasn't prepared to meet family. And now that I have, my heart hurts. I hold to the highest standards those I regard as my own. Papa. Mama. Myself. Kakashi-sama once chided me, saying this is a particularly dangerous strain of perfectionism. "You're an Uchiha, all right," he'd said.

To my astonishment, someone returns with a small clay cup full of lukewarm water.

The air is chilly and dry here, so I'm impatient, barely taking a glance at who's feeding me. When the cup is lowered momentarily, I see dark eyes and spiky, unruly, raven hair.

My mouth gets drier than before water. This time, I know it's not my mind playing tricks on me. It's like I'm seeing Papa's double, but also different. Younger, like in the old Team Seven photo Mama kept. I choke on my swallow. _Is the Uchiha clan going to be full of these painfully familiar faces?  
_

"Hey, take it easy!" the look-alike says. "Madara and I are responsible for keeping you alive."

 _Alive is good._ I parse through the rest of his words. So my kidnapper's name is Madara? Sounds familiar. But I'm woozy from fatigue and I don't want to think further.

"Who are you, then?" Besides Papa, there's also similarities in this man's face to Madara's. "Brother?"

"Right on," the man smiles. "I'm Izuna. Sorry about the living conditions, Hime. If you're uncomfortable in that chair, just tell me. I'll bring cushions."

 _Izuna the cushion-bringer._ I decide I can trust this man. With one piece of information, at least. One which his brother dismissed.

"Izuna, I'm not a princess."

His face is calm, even gentle. "Sorry, Hime, but you have the looks."

"Well, I'm not. And why am I tied up here?"

Izuna fiddles with the emptied cup before putting it down. "You can't tell, but there's a battle going on outside right now," He holds up a hand, and I flinch automatically. But Izuna's holding another of those potato-like root vegetables. It looks suspiciously like the one I turned down from Madara.

I nod to the food, because my body is now dangerously faint. Izuna begins to peel back the skin at the bottom.

"You're in a tent near the battle ground," he explains. "But we didn't want to alarm you right away."

The Uchiha are amazing genjutsu artists. Even without Sharingan, I'm usually good at spotting some missing detail, something off, about a genjutsu. The wood wall in front of me looks sturdy and real. And then I realize—the draft behind my back. It's almost too drafty, for a real door.

There's another breeze at my back. A woman with stern features crosses into my line of vision. She resembles Aunt Shizune, with longer hair.

"Lord Izuna, you're needed in battle."

"In a minute, Furumi," he says. She nods respectfully. As she's rushing out, I see a small short sword at her side. _She practices kenjutsu?_ _Do most Uchiha?_ I've always wanted to learn from Papa, but it's one of the things I didn't finished studying before I arrived here.

There's another thing I figure out from the exchange between Izuna and Furumi. There's a tight hierarchy in this clan. Izuna is somewhere above Furumi. I would bet Itama's gold ingot that Izuna's somewhere near the top, and Madara's up there as well, with his clunky armor. This still leaves the mystery of why I'm here at the battle at all. Why they sent a high-ranking officer to fetch me all the way from a Senju-affiliated tea shop.

"Am I a hostage?" I say between big bites of the foreign potato. It's starchy and slightly sweet. And boiled to perfection, so no complaints, even while being fed like an infant.

"Yes," Izuna smiles cheerfully. "You'll be very useful to us."

I can't use my hands when they're bound to my side. Otherwise, I would dispel the genjutsu with a simple _kai_. The other option is to use my eyes. But do I trust Izuna _that much?_ More information, I decide, can't hurt.

"Who's fighting the battle against you?"

"Good question," he smiles. "Various nobles from Fire territory. We're funded by foreigners this time."

 _This time?_ "So you guys think I'm a Fire territory noble?" I ask. "And you want to use me as a bargaining chip?"

"Clever girl," Izuna says. "The thing about making a living as ninja is that we can never be too careful. We can handle most clans. The opposing damiyo and his vassals know this, so they hire the Senju to oppose us. And with the daimyo who need to who face the Senju, they will hire us."

"You thought I was gonna _hire_ the Senju clan _to fight you?"_

He laughs at my incredulous face. Then, I realize that he _should_ laugh. I was dolled up at a fancy tea shop in a room with a man who called me _Hime_ , at a place where such transactions occur regularly.

"You've got the wrong person," I repeat stalwartly. "How can I prove it to you?"

"No matter. We'll find out shortly." Izuna fingers a tassel on my kimono, his eyes hooded. "Maybe you're a young, pretty mistress. You could stymie an old, balding fogey and his troops. A few dozen soldiers held back is plenty."

His compliments and offer of cushions carry new meaning, now. The temperature in the room seems to drop. For all of Izuna's smiling face and patience in feeding me, this man is a dangerous shinobi who thinks I'm on the other side. He'll throw me to the sharks and feel good about it afterward, if it should help his clan. In a way, I prefer Madara, who made no niceties as he hauled me through the shattered window.

"I have something to show you," I say.

Again, Izuna humors me with that gentle smile of his. "Oh? Show me."

The wood hut disappears. The tent around me becomes clear as day.

I see the chakra building along Izuna's body, but more importantly, I see the silhouettes of figures waiting just outside the tent, their sandaled feet shifting slightly. Their sandals are different from Izuna's, Madara's, and that woman called Furumi, who all sported identical outfits except for the armor plates.

"Y-Your eyes…" Izuna pales.

But now's not the time. I need to make him understand.

"There's three figures outside. Check if they're Uchiha guards," I whisper urgently.

I can tell he's been trained from a young age to handle unpredictable events in series. He silently and quickly swivels to check where my eyes snap, then turns back to me.

Finally, Izuna slowly unsheathes the katana at his back.

As he raises the sword above my head, I wonder if Konoha's books were even a bit too _kind_ about the Uchiha.

My ropes fall at my feet.

I make no sudden movements. Now, Izuna's directing me with his eyes. _Act natural._ This is easier said than done. The shadows in our cramped space creep a little closer, and the hunch I have about the pineapple head silhouette I see against the flapping tent canvas turns into a full blown image of Shikadai playing tag in the playground. He always won if it was after a certain time in the afternoon, when the shadows were longest.

"Walk away from the shadows," I breathe to Izuna.

There's a new _something_ highlighting his features, toward me. I can tell he's still frazzled by my eyes.

"Walk out," I whisper.

Izuna's still shaken as he follows me out. "Who are you?" his voice trembles, but he makes no move to inhibit me.

I walk as leisurely as I can to the outside, to the front of the tent, hoping to not scare off any of the people who I think are infiltrators. I don't know what I'll do if I actually have to fight them. But when we arrive, they're already gone. Izuna's face falls, and he takes me by the shoulders, as if to retie me someplace. I have to stop him, fast.

"Look for people with different sandals," I say quickly. "Hurry! You might still catch them!"

"We will," he says, if a bit apologetically. "But I can't let you loose by yourself."

He marches me in the direction of a large tent. Now that I'm outside, I see the full brunt of the preparations near the battle ground. It's so different and yet so similar to everything I've known, in my field missions. The uniform bunks. The couriers running about. The barked orders, and dispatched troops.

There's just one thing different. Whereas I was always the only one on my field missions with spinning red eyes, here, there are groups of them. Not everyone. But definitely enough such that my eyes don't draw any second looks by the people that I pass. We enter the tent.

"Furumi," Izuna calls.

The woman called Furumi is surrounded by stacks of scrolls piled high in a mountain of small cylinders. I wonder if it's correspondence, and she's in charge of communications, something that the Yamanaka usually did in Konoha, my time. There's other people in the tent, too. None of them give me a second look, just like Furumi's reaction when she first came into my tent when I was tied up. It's strange, how nonchalant everyone is. I wish I still wasn't wearing my ridiculous princess get up. Everyone else is in battle uniforms.

"Watch her," says Izuna. "I'm going to get a patrol together to do a security check."

As I stare at Izuna's retreating figure, I'm reminded of Mama's efforts to pawn me off to Aunt Shizune when Mama's on for back to back shifts at the hospital. That was when I was five years old. Still, I feel as if I'm suddenly a little girl again, being assessed by the Uchiha for any naughtiness and ill behavior.

Uchiha Furumi straightens from her scrolls. Her expression toward me is nothing like Shizune's kind face. Furumi's also probably a little younger—maybe early forties? But people in this era aged and died faster, and I wonder if she's actually in her thirties. Still, that age makes her quite advanced. No wonder she's in this big tent, surrounded by a team of silent workers.

"You're the hostage?" her eyes flick to mine. "Lord Izuna's charge." This part is not a question.

At least she does know who I am. As a few other gazes flit over to me at Furumi's words, I begin to suspect that _everyone_ is curious—what I mistook as apathy is just a symptom of their genetic poker face. The Uchiha resting bitch face, if you will. As hereditary as our Sharingan.

"Madara wanted a hostage," I say defiantly. "But you have the wrong person."

I say it because I have to fend for myself in a den of lions. Or, more accurately, a field of icebergs. But I can tell immediately that using Madara's name like that is going to get me ripped to shreds or sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

"Just don't get in the way." Furumi picks up another scroll like she doesn't care if I'm not a good hostage. Or if I have the Sharingan. Or if I'm her blood kin.

 _This._ This is mystifying.

I approach another worker, one who looks to be about my age, with dark brown locks and a sharp chin. Maybe I can get some information from him, both about this battle and about the Uchiha clan in this time.

"Hello," I try. This guy's shuffling around beads on an abacus. "Can I help?"

"No."

"I'm good at calculations," I persist. "What's this for?"

"To check we got paid enough," he says without ever looking up. "If they skimp us on our fees, it won't be pretty for them."

I add _miserly_ to my list of adjectives describing my ancestors. Or _frugal._ Actually, I'm not mad at this new Uchiha fact. Being the kid of someone who accidentally destroyed houses at the drop of a finger makes you realize money's not grown on trees. And besides, this is the age of ninja mercenaries.

The rest of my conversations go similarly well. I find engaging the room in conversation tiring, at best. Utterly futile, at worst. The people in the tent withdraw as soon as they see me edge toward them. Like I'm some contagion. For all of his prejudice against the Uchiha, Senju Itama never treated me like this.

I'm actually happy when a messy-haired courier bursts into the tent with a scroll.

"They've flooded the plain!" the courier shouts.

Furumi immediately straightens from her work. "Report, Takeda."

"Suiton," says the courier Takeda. "One of the clans specializes in battles on water. Our katon unit has been rendered useless. Our best fighters with the Sharingan are now far outnumbered."

I watch the exchange with clinical interest at first. Water jutsu, huh? Fireballs may have been the Uchiha signature traditionally, but Mama encouraged me to branch out. In the age of ninja tech, diversity is necessity. I've trained to never have to shrink against an elemental disadvantage.

Wait. With this, maybe I can win the Uchiha's trust _and_ my freedom. But I need to be shrewd. Furumi seems the type to take babysitting very seriously. I watch as her stern face gets a little sterner. Like Courier Takeda's scroll has personally offended her in some way. "What sort of money do those Fire vassals have, to pay for so many soldiers?" she says disgustedly.

"I vote we retreat to the trees," says abacus-man. "We can burn 'em there."

"Not enough will follow us," retorts another who's shuffling scroll paper. "There'll be too many left in the flooded plain."

"I say we kill a few more and then just go."

"That slashes our pay more than half!"

Rather than devolve into a shouting match, like I've seen Konoha shinobi on field missions do, there ensues the world's scariest staring match.

So I pipe in.

"What about we change the landscape? Drain the water?"

Clearly, I am not exercising good etiquette. Not in this hierarchical, orderly place. They all look at me like I've grown scales on my face, and then simultaneously look away. If this weren't so urgent, I would have laughed.

Another figure bursts in: a second courier with a mailbag slung around her torso.

"We found infiltrators in the camp!"

"What?" one of the tent's worker gasps. I suspect she's somehow in charge of security, if her mask of nonchalance dropped so quickly.

"They ruined our food supply!" continues the courier.

"What about our weapons?" Furumi demands.

"We saved that in time." Then, the second courier looks nervously around the tent, as if searching for something. Or someone.

"Lord Izuna says I'm to thank his charge."

Izuna's charge.

Me.

Everyone goes silent, but it's a different sort of silence than the kind before. You could cut the air in the tent with a kunai. The first to speak is abacus-man, and it's clear he notices the shift in tension.

"I still think we should retreat to the trees," he says haltingly. "Draining the water is time consuming."

But my idea to drain the flood is a good one. It can't be ignored. _I_ can't be ignored.

The Uchiha don't show on their faces the things they think are worth their time, I've noticed. They ignore and disparage.

But secretly, they scrutinize.

As I expected, the conversation steers back to my idea. "What elemental jutsu could drain an entire battleground?" Furumi says in clipped tones. "We are on a grass plain, but we aren't Senju curs, who make flowers dance around."

Flowers dancing around is not how I would describe what wood release jutsu does, but hey, I've only seen clinical demos. I explain to the people in the tent that it doesn't have to be an elemental jutsu. I've seen Iwa chuunin devastate miles and miles of field with their earth jutsu. But I've seen my mother do the same to our backyard with her pinky. I tell them I can do the same.

Slowly, everyone's face loses the disinterested masks.

Good.

They can't pretend to ignore me, anymore.

To them, I am utterly, batshit insane. Or extremely powerful.

And, in the end, the margin of overlap between those two things is very high.

* * *

Izuna shoots me a half-smile. "You okay?"

"Fine."

It's not entirely true. The first time I was put on the front lines, it was a simulation for new chuunin. In my era, the shinobi villages were at peace. Wars were localized, and where battles did occur, they were usually fought guerrilla-style. But that day for chuunin training, the simulated front lines were an entirely new experience. I'd read about trench warfare before. I'd heard about troops marching to battle, not breaking ranks. But it's awful, to experience.

Still, a simulation's nothing compared to the real thing.

There are no trenches here, thankfully. Wars in this era haven't gotten to that point. But there are people grappling, chasing each other, moving between the fallen, who're floating in the strange stale water. It's carnage on a scale I've never seen except for once in my life. In my other life. Before _here._

"You don't have to push yourself to pretend, you know," Izuna says. He's been briefed about my haphazard mission to drain the enormous field, and he's doubtful. "You sure you're not someone's mistress? One of those foreigners, perhaps?" He points to my glasses and give them a playful flick. "I've heard those eyeglasses are expensive."

He's joking with me. My glasses are the only material mark of wealth left on me. I've changed out of the kimono and into a dark gray high colored blouse with loose fitting black pants. It's the standard battle attire of the Uchiha clan. They don't give me any of their armor plates, nor any weapons besides two chipped shuriken. I guess I haven't earned that status yet. Or they haven't fully accepted me as their own.

I tell myself this doesn't matter, whether the Uchiha accept me fully. What good does armor do, against all this water, against a battle of over a hundred shinobi on the other side? Right now, what my clan needs is not Uchiha Sasuke's daughter, but Haruno Sakura's daughter.

Except Izuna's different. Since I showed him my Sharingan, he's shown consideration in a deeper way than his offer to bring cushions. In a way, he's the ultimate testament to this era's clan mentality.

"I'll open up a path for you."

Izuna shrugs on the strap attaching his polished katana. I shiver at his tone. There's no fear, no trepidation, in it. It's as if Izuna thinks himself invincible, or, alternatively, _dispensable._

The execution of a simple plan is nevertheless startling to watch.

I wouldn't have been able to follow Izuna's movements, if my eyes weren't in Sharingan mode. The Uchiha's strides are as fluid as the liquid underneath them. I see his soles dance along the water, his katana parrying any that oppose him. Enemies rise out of the water like sea serpents, but he cuts through with something that can only be described as an innate gracefulness.

I follow before the path Izuna's carved closes up.

Chakra pumps to my toes, just enough to propel me forward, like a dancer, while conserving energy for my next action.

Several pairs of red eyes follow me, assessing my movements.

Assessing _me._

Good.

If the Uchiha think I'm crazy now, they haven't seen anything yet.

"SHAAAAANAARO!"

My fist explodes the water.

The rippling splash is deafening as a watery orb envelops me on all four sides. The waves launch up like a dome, exposing the foundation of bare earth. In the split second differential, my second fist hits the ground. Locating the tension point in a single vein of sediment is difficult. But I've been trained to target capillaries and nerve endings, helping Mama.

The fissure starts slow.

It starts as a tiny crack in the soft crust of the earth, then, a splintering line forms into the dry sediment beneath, deep and dark and thin.

The water churns, begins to seep, as in a mug that's developed a crack. At first, a trickle, then as the water pressure bears on the fissuring crevice, the gushing water splits the earth. Some areas are patched by mud, but where the earth is loose enough to crumble underneath, my punches have created a sinkhole like a blade's edge.

I'm not done, however. The Uchiha clan must come to accept me. It's not so much for my own sake as it is for the next few steps of shinobi and Konoha history.

 _Katon!_

An inferno is traditional Uchiha fare. From my circled fingers issues a spectacular flaming ball, so big it can be seen for miles. Normally, a ball of this size is more for show than function. But the show here _is_ the function. As I angle it toward the sky, the flaming inferno creates a distraction, in this moment. Enough for the Uchiha clan fighters to regain the flow of the battle.

But the opposing side's not the only distracted party.

Izuna has turned back to stare.

The shock is evident in the way his katana stills, and his arms lose tension. His opponent, a large muscular figure with sallow skin and dripping hair, stops and gapes as if he's seen a monster.

As for me, I'm still drenched from head to toe, ever since my first punch. And after my fire ball show, I'm steaming from my pores. My hair clings to my face. My glasses become a hindrance as they fog up and condensate in turns. I take them off and wipe the water from my face, glaring at the blurred world around me.

As Izuna would tell me later that day, that move alone scared his opponent shitless. My eyes, Izuna would say, seemed to blaze with something not of this earth. That's not far off from the truth. I'm not of this place. But I don't tell Izuna that. He doesn't need to know all my secrets just yet.

There's someone else in line for secrets, though.

For the rest of the battle, that someone surveys me just as I survey my handiwork.

Uchiha Madara's red eyes never stop spinning in my direction.

* * *

As the saying goes: _you can win the battle but lose the war._ We've won the battle. Now, the Uchiha are primed for me to help them win the war. But I don't know if I want to win this war—one waged ad infinitum against the other clans, especially Senju.

Winning _their_ war means that I lose mine.

I pretend to be engrossed in the view, as I trudge onward. The sky outside is dappled with pinks and purples, the clouds like cotton candy wisps as the early spring's dusk settles as a cool blanket.

Mostly, I stare at the view as an excuse to avoid conversation.

The Uchiha clan members have taken a new approach to me now that they've seen what I can do. If there were any prior misgivings about the purity of my allegiance (and lineage) that's now an afterthought. I'm jostled into the middle of the march of glory. Of victorious men and women, coming home from battle.

The huts and small shops that we pass eventually make way for bigger buildings. From large, elaborately painted structures, townsfolk wave from intricate window frames. There's smaller residences, too. People cluster at their front porches with family members, stringing colorful flags up on poles to show congratulations. I spot a few scarlet and white fan insignias on banners, but none on people. Villagers gush onto public roads to catch a glimpse of us, the returning troops, in uniform. They crowd around bridges, their reflections in the water wave seemingly endlessly at us. No one runs up to hug or touch. Briefly, I wonder where the other Uchiha are.

"Surprised at the reception?" says a voice beside me.

"You're quite popular," I reply stiffly.

Even if I'm no longer a hostage, Izuna is still my official 'guard'. Not that he treats this job seriously, anymore. He turns to smile gently at the gaggle of gushing girls as our victorious procession marches past. They screech their undying love and nearly upend my eardrums.

Izuna leans closer to me with a conspirator's grin.

"They're stupid."

"And you're _mean._ "

"I'm not mean," he chuckles, teeth gleaming in the winking sunset. "I'm telling the truth. They see only what's on the outside. Those girls wouldn't last a day as an Uchiha's partner."

An Uchiha's partner, huh. I think of Mama, of her love and resilience. Then I banish the thought, because it makes me sad and sentimental. Instead, I swivel back to peer at the line of persistent village girls, which stretches on impressively, almost into the horizon.

"Well, they look pretty determined. If you're not careful, you'll be tying the knot soon."

"As if," Izuna scoffs. "Most are after Madara."

"Huh," I say. "I _do_ doubt that _anyone_ could last a day as your brother's partner."

There's a brief lull as we turn the bend. Rows and rows of hedges border the road. A tall gate looms in front of the road leading to those green walls. Carved into the gate is a familiar emblem: a fan. I'm sure that I'm gaping, because I've never imagined what the Uchiha compound could have looked like, before Papa's time. Something inside me swells.

"Besides," Izuna looks at my reaction thoughtfully. "Those girls aren't like you."

I immediately go back to staring at the sunset.

* * *

The bathhouse is one of the few places in this village where I can find time alone. Everywhere else, it's either Uchiha members trying to discuss battle tactics with me, or villagers trying to get a peek at the ' _girl who cracked open the underworld with her pinky_ '. It's so over the top, I spent the first night in town with a large sash wrapped around my head. But the lure of cleanliness was too strong to resist. I can't keep the disguise on as I wash my hair this morning.

"You're too tense."

The unexpected arrival makes me stiffen.

I turn around to see who's come.

Surprise and discomfort twist my insides. Uchiha Furumi the severe field commander goes to the public baths in the morning. The kunoichi is in the midst of dumping ice water on herself like it's nothing. Figures. She probably needs to stay cold, or she'll melt.

"Of course I'm tense," I reply as I go back to scrubbing my arms fiercely. "You all acted like I didn't exist, and suddenly, everyone wants to talk."

When I say everyone, I mean it. I have meetings back to back with the Uchiha clan elders. After my bath, I'm due at the clan's central meeting house, which is located somewhere in the meandering hedge maze that also envelops my guest lodgings.

There's no reply, but the splashing stops. I glance over and see Furumi's already briskly drying off, her face thoughtful.

"Maybe we judge others too quickly," she says. "But please do not judge us too quickly, either."

How can I not judge, when I'm making choices stringing together a future between the life and death of shinobi kind? My frustration flares but I force it to a simmer, splashing cold droplets onto my scalp and face. _I am too tense._

I reach for my towel to dry off, but my hand meets a small, waxy lump in its place.

Soap.

Furumi has gifted me with soap.

In this era, it's a luxury. For a no-nonsense woman, I cannot believe she would own any for herself, much less gift it to a near stranger like me. Maybe it's her way of saying thank you. Or making sure I don't stink up the room when I'm meeting the clan leaders.

I swallow the soap-sized lump in my throat. _And maybe… I am too quick to judge._

I walk out of the bathhouse in muted silence. Once again, I've been dressed by a rich young master. This time, it's not Itama, but Izuna, who apparently instructed his younger girl cousin to lay out my wardrobe this morning. Besides my grimy battle uniform, it was the only thing available when I woke in the guest room. The simple kosode is made of a navy linen, with a red sash tie around the middle. The only embellishment is the shape of a fan, embroidered on the back. I don't read too much into why this has been given to me.

The open streets of this town are lined with various stalls serving scallion flatbread and other breakfast foods. Judging by this, I have a bit of time before my first meeting with the Uchiha elders. My feet naturally gravitate toward a particularly lovely scent—sizzling twists of dough, dipped in vats of oil. Ninja field rations in my time were never glamorous. But persistent hunger is a new phenomenon, one that only started in this era. I reach the stall and feast my eyes on the extravagant food. I don't have the money to feast for real.

"Miss! Uchiha girl!"

An elderly man sitting on a public bench nearby waves to me. His enthusiastic, flapping palm motions me over. I see he has a shogi board laid out on his lap, but no one to play with.

"A game, Miss?" he smiles, his chipped teeth on full display as he beams up at me.

I smile tentatively, and sit down. It feels like eons since I've played games. I tell myself to relax, to enjoy thinking through my moves without placing any consequences on it. Slowly, the tension releases from my shoulders, then my hands as I position my pieces. I'm four moves away from checkmate (I think? I'm not Shikadai) when a familiar voice interrupts my strategizing.

"You're blending right in, Hime."

"I told you, I'm not a princess." I don't turn to the newcomer as I reposition my foot-soldier piece. "Your move, Genkai-san."

"Don't be like that," Izuna chuckles. "Hime or not, your given name is so strange."

"Sarada's not strange," I frown.

"Who _is_ your Uchiha relation? No relative I know would name their kid that."

Part of me wishes I could ignore him forever, but I know Izuna's here to do more than tease me. The morning has wore on, and people are transitioning to their midday routines: deliverymen shuttling back onto the road, shopkeepers in the thick of publicizing and bargaining over their wares. I bow to the kindly Genkai to thank him for the game, before standing.

"Wait," Genkai says. He creaks up on his feet and moves to where the fried dough vendor is packing up. Before I can protest, he's bought a remainder dough twist, and held it up to me.

"It's gotten a bit cold," the old man apologizes. "But it's half off when he's closing shop."

Genkai's worn clothes hangs on a thin frame, attached to a warm face and a warmer smile, framing haphazard teeth. This old man could never afford a full price one. I suspect Genkai saw my hunger at the vendor stand, then made me wait with the shogi game, until he could buy me something.

I thought I was winning our match of wits, but I see now that I'm wrong.

With shaking hands, I accept the bread. My first bite is enormous, and I see Genkai's face light up to mirror mine. The dough twist is lightly salted and crunchy on the outside, and chewy on the inside. Genkai refuses any piece of it I try to offer. He says that I look like I enjoy it too much.

I don't have the time to tell him that's it's not about the food. I hope he understands nevertheless.

* * *

The walk to the main Uchiha compound is short. It's strategically positioned at the center of town, just as the Uchiha clan is at the center of this town's security force. However, the Uchiha don't seem to have the same political or economic sway as the Senju in their town. As I walk, I try to fathom why. For one, this village seems far too big and complex. For another, the clan members seem to retain a sense of aloofness toward other villagers, content to manage their own affairs secretively, and to manage others' affairs only for a _price._

"What's the meeting about?"

"I wouldn't know, Hime." Izuna taps his chin. "It's top secret to everyone but the attendees."

"Then, who'll be there?"

"My father. Maybe some cousins, but you shouldn't worry about them, since they listen to my father. And my brother."

"Madara will be there?"

"Yes. He's Father's successor."

That's at least one person I know, even if I don't know how to _feel_ about him. Ever since the battle on the plain ended, Madara's been popping up in my peripheral vision. Never too close; never too far. I wonder if he's waiting for me to make a misstep, before swooping in like a large bird of prey. Just like he'd waited, that time in the Senju tea shop.

I follow Izuna through the winding maze that marks the entrance to the Uchiha compound. As we walk, he tells me the names of the various elders and their familial relations. He also gives me helpful tips on what they look like, and their respective temperaments.

The first thing that happens when I arrive, and Izuna waves goodbye, is that I am led down a hallway and then plopped unceremoniously into the middle of what feels like a court room. There's a jury panel of cousins on one side, all male. A wizened female watches like a hawk from the back, brush poised as if she's taking notes. A few guard-types stand at attention by the entrance and exits. Sitting like a prosecutor toward the front of the room is Madara. And, at the very front, squarely facing me, is a man I recognize by Izuna's description as Uchiha Tajima.

The Uchiha clan head.

Uchiha Tajima has graying hair and worn lines on his face, like he hasn't slept well in years. He carries a blade as he carries _his own body like a blade_ , rigid and unyielding. A man like this wastes no time. As Izuna's said his father would, Tajima cuts right to the chase. His words sound like he's reading the sentencing of the defendant. That would be me, sitting stiff-legged in the center of the tatami room.

I expect the clan head to start with politics. Or a thank you, since he was not at the flooded plain battle. Perhaps he'd even assign me a mission to teach everyone in the clan _'how to crack open the underworld with a pinky'._ I do not expect this.

"You are a bastard child."

"I—" the sound leaves my mouth before I can stop it. But _a bastard_ is the best explanation anyone can give about me, so I shut up. My indiscretion has already drawn disapproving glares from all around.

"Normally, we would strip you of your eyes," he continues.

My down-turned face is impassive, even as a storm begins to brew inside. After this morning, I've tricked myself into thinking the clan liked me enough to give me soap and clean clothes with a fan on the back. But maybe that's only a few people. Maybe the rest see me as a disturbance. I think back to Izuna's pale face, when he first saw my eyes. There must be strict rules here, like with the Hyuga clan in Hinata-sama's time.

"We want you to join us in the next battle."

"Who's on the other side?" I ask carefully.

The answer is obvious from the moment Tajima launches into the speech he must have given a hundred times. It starts with the cruel history of the Senju. The Senju clan's allies, their funders, their conspiracies to wipe the Uchiha from the map. Tajima elaborates on the honor of the Uchiha, the tradition of brotherhood, the dead's souls crying for retribution. I'm almost pliant, with pity, when Tajima begins to speak of the glory of war. The birthright of the Sharingan, to conquer. The power and the rich reward that is promised, once the Uchiha take all. All, for the clan. The clan, before all.

And, finally, he tells me the battle is tomorrow.

"Join us in defeating the Senju. If you do, you will get a great reward."

"What reward?" slips from my mouth, though I'm still reeling from the news. _Will they not pluck out my eyes? Refrain from killing me? Pretend I'm not a bastard?_ My frustration reaches a peak, like an animal cornered. I had thought the Uchiha were trying to make peace with me. But I'm beginning to doubt it could ever happen, at least with the clan head.

A few murmurs come from the collection of cousins. _Try to not to judge, too quickly._ But when I look at them for any sign of dissent, each face is as blank as a new slate.

"Your reward would be..." Tajima's eyes narrow. "Full membership in the clan."

 _Stay silent._

"I don't know whose bastard you are, but your powers are that of a true Uchiha. This must carry into the next generation."

My face burns, and I'm suddenly all too aware of the numerous eyes on me. They're assessing me in a way none of my immediate family ever have. Suddenly, I think of the girls lining the road. The ones Izuna says have no chance with the Uchiha. I speak as evenly as I can.

"What if that's not what I want?"

"Not what you want?" a cousin with prominent sideburns bursts out. Tatsuhiro, I think. "How insolent!"

I bite my cheek and go back to staring at the tatami mat.

"What _do_ you want, then?"

It takes me a while to realize that it's Madara who's spoken. Madara—who kidnapped me without a second thought, left when I asked for water, stares incessantly at me without offering any explanation—suddenly wants to know what _I want._

"Peace," I say. And, when that brings a round of confused murmurs, I add:

"Vengeance."

I look up at Madara then. I know my Sharingan's spinning.

Because I remember Uchiha Madara, now.

From one of our first history lessons at the Academy. He's Hashirama's opponent at the Valley of the End. He was, is, a man driven by vengeance.

Like my Papa.

Like this entire clan.

Like _me._

* * *

The history books about my clan were right.

Konoha Library: 1. Me: 0.

After the meetings end, I race out the door of the stifling meeting room, having made no promises but also made no progress. None of the Uchiha find me tolerable, just as I find further fighting with the Senju intolerable. If it weren't for the acts of kindness earlier today, I would leave this place and shake out my sandals at them. Actually, the first part's not a bad idea. It could be my only option.

Izuna catches me as I storm to the door of my guest bedroom.

"Wait! What happened?"

"Ask your brother!" I snarl. "He wants me to fight the Senju to the death!"

"When?" Izuna seems to have missed my feelings about the matter. I can tell by his eyes that he's excited at the prospect of fighting the Senju. My stomach churns, and I try to swing past him to my room. The Uchiha have, at least, treated me with hospitality in the material sense. I decide that after I fold my bed and launder the sheets, I'm leaving. I have soap now. Laundry shouldn't take long. And I don't want to owe them anything.

"When?" he repeats, as he follows me into the room. He's like an overgrown gnat, so I bark out the answer.

" _Tomorrow?"_ he repeats, incredulous. "That soon? I knew something was happening soon, but I didn't think Brother would keep this secret from me!"

"He keeps lot of secrets," I say, grabbing dirty linens haphazardly. "Just like everyone else in this wretched era."

Izuna looks at me, confusion all over his face. I try to push past him again, but he wedges between me and the door as he grabs the other end of the futon that's bundled in my arms. I can tell he's on to me. Change of plans, then.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

"Somewhere I can think!"

"Are you leaving town?" his hand is on my wrist, tight with tension. "Don't go! I-I don't want anything to happen to you."

"Nothing will happen," I mutter darkly.

Izuna's not stupid. "Are you coming back?" he asks, softer this time.

"Yes."

I tell myself it's not a lie.

Not entirely. I might come back, at some point in the future. Just not tonight. Because if I'm here tomorrow, the Uchiha elders will drag me to do battle at their side. The only way I could leave the meeting today not tied up in rope, possibly with my eyes gouged out, was to offer something inconclusive to the clan elders. But inside, I know: I can't go to battle, tomorrow. Not against the Senju. I need Konoha to happen. I need to fix the clan mentality. I need everyone unified—to save the shinobi world.

But in my mind, I wonder if it's futile.

We're so eager to kill off each other. What does it matter if some third party finishes us off, hundreds of years in the future?

* * *

With luxuries like warm food, sleep, a bath and warm clothes, my feet feel like they could run forever.

The scenery blurs together as I speed along, trying to outpace my own guilt. I travel on the muddy road, trying not to think too much, as I follow the curve of the trees. Dense and lush, the forest seems to stretch on infinitely. When I get thirsty, I stop and drink from the babbling springs. Soon enough, I'm following trickling brooks. Then I see the fast-flowing current of the river.

It's the river where Itama first tried to kill me.

An unwelcome thought returns to me. _Had Itama meant to kill me all along?_ The tranquil atmosphere sours, as I ruminate on this thought. Scowling, I pick up a sizable rock and hurl it across the foaming water.

An _"ouch"_ erupts from the other bank.

I nearly fall over in surprise. _Who's here?_ How long have they been here, with me? Of all days, this is the one where I'm in no mood to pull punches. I stalk over to the water's edge, prepared to launch a jutsu downstream. Something shifts from the corner of my eye.

Suddenly, the rock I threw moments ago skips back into my vision. _Do I hear a grunt of exertion?_

"What the hell..." My anger fizzles out a bit, as confusion takes its place.

"You should say sorry instead."

Swallowing my retort, I twist around the river bank to look for the speaker.

I spot nothing at first. Then, my eyes land on an interesting tree at the other side of the river—it's a small and intricately knotted bonsai, unlike the evergreen firs and pines around it. I could swear that the small tree is shaking its strangely colored leaves at me, as if in disappointment.

"I didn't imagine Itama's savior to be like this," says the bonsai, forlornly.

 _Did the tree just talk?_

I call _"kai"_ to release any genjutsu. I stick a finger to my ear. Finally, I slap my cheeks.

"I didn't think you would be so… angry," the tiny tree laments.

 _Angry? I'll show you angry._

Naruto-sama once said I'm Mama's daughter in temper. As soon as I send wave of water down like a miniature tsunami, across the tree, I hear a despairing gurgle. The water settles.

In place of the bonsai, I see a surprised, drenched man.

A man whose face would be carved into the mountain, years from now.

I'm eloquent when I can't decide on an emotion.

" _You!"_

"Me?" The raven-haired man points a finger at himself, his surprised face morphing into one of trepidation. "W-Wait! No more waves! No earthquakes either! Itama told me what you could do, and honestly, I had to be careful, just in case you—"

"—You're Senju Hashirama!" I interject.

"Shhh! Not so loud! You never know who's listening," he says, putting a finger to his lips and miming the shush sound. But then the future Shodaime's face breaks out into a pleased grin, as he hears the note of pleasure in my voice as I address the future founder of Konoha.

"So you're happy to see me?" Hashirama laughs ruefully. "I thought you were trying to kill me with that rock!"

I am happy. Relieved, rather. _Or I was?_

Only, now, I'm thinking about the Uchiha again. And how I have to choose. My naiveté, that history would just bring about Konoha's founding, is as exposed as the worn pebbles along this bank.

From across the river, Hashirama's gaze is trained on me. I see him hesitate, as if he's considering whether to cross over instead of continue shouting at each other. I know his hesitation has nothing to do with the speed of the water flow.

"Actually, I bear a message," he intones. His eyes never leave mine, as if he's assessing me, as he skips across the river lightly.

Normally, I would back up and get into fighting stance, just in case. But I'm a little dumbfounded as the smooth black hair and piercing eyes approach ever closer. The god of shinobi is young, but already has such _presence._

Then he falls into the water—

 _What. Just. Happened._

—and splashes up a second later.

"Found dinner!" Hashirama declares, dripping, triumphant, and holding a _fish._

 _Um. Resourcefulness is a virtue,_ I remind myself _._

.

.

.

 _tbc_

.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu: Hashirama, so resourceful. I enjoy writing Izuna and Madara too, but Hashirama's a crazy alien._


	4. panel 4

_Suzu: this chapter wraps up an arc. Enjoy!  
_

* * *

.

 **Triptych**

.

04

.

 _the end  
_

 _of the beginning_

.

* * *

It's not quite dinner time, but I could eat a cow, even in the form of those carcinogenic spicy burgers Boruto used to buy. My hunger is either a symptom of my trek here, or energy expended from being insulted by clan elders all afternoon. The latter, probably. I refocus on grilling fish with a small _katon_ , while Hashirama tells me his message.

"Thank you."

"For what?" I mutter. His proximity makes anything above twinkly teeth a sort of no-fly zone. Chouchou would have a field day, as I've finally succumbed to celebrity syndrome. But for all my awkward admiration of the hokage, nothing about Hashirama _looks_ impressive. The man gingerly pokes the fish with his finger. His whole face puckers as he winces from the burn.

"Isn't it obvious?" he says once he's blown on his aggrieved appendage. "For saving Itama."

As I'm handed my food, my stomach suddenly feels queasy. The memory of the tea shop settles like a lead weight. _Who was Kawato, really?_ The anxiety must show on my face, because Hashirama shifts.

"I should say sorry, too," he says. "It's my fault our meeting never happened."

I parse his words, and frown. "How so?"

"Kawato is, uh, _was_ , my intermediary."

"You know him?"

Hashirama's sheer _presence_ ignites the air again, like an electric current with an on and off switch. "Kawato's an ally of the clan. Our clans go way back, and some say we were once family. Anytime we do deals with new parties, Kawato tests them."

" _That_ was a _test?"_ I close my eyes. They're probably flashing red.

"I told Kawato you were a member of the daimyo's court, to ensure you were treated well. I saw his body, well, _after_ ," he says meaningfully. "Exactly what happened?"

So the fourth floor rooms of that tea shop _are_ private, as Itama promised. Whatever happened, stayed in that room. The memory of the lazy, hungry gaze seizes me. Who else was _tested_ in that tea shop? Did they carry that secret exam to the grave, out of fear? Obligation? Would Kawato's successor follow in his footsteps?

No. No successor can be allowed.

I take a steadying breath. Then I tell the god of shinobi everything. Everything _except_ that it was Madara who kidnapped me. That, I omit strategically. The Valley of the End is a landmine with unknown details and trigger points. I replace my kidnapper's identity, with a generic Uchiha whose name, I say, I never found out. Nevertheless, when I'm finished recounting, Hashirama's face takes on an ashy hue. The Senju heir adjusts the scarf around his neck. Then, he bowls over, head first, as if to smash his cranium into the rocks on the riverbank. It takes me a moment to realize that he's bowing.

To me.

The god of shinobi is prostrating himself, as a sign of penitence. There's no history book telling me how to appropriately respond to _this._

"I never realized Kawato had discarded his honor." Hashirama's voice is rough. "To the one who saved my brother, no less. There's no way I can make up for this."

My heart drums in my ears.

"There may be... a way."

"Anything you want, just ask." Hashirama straightens. His expression is unreadable. I wonder if he's telling the truth. "Itama said you were a friend to all clans."

There are a lot of things I want Hashirama's help with. And then there are the things that I _need_ his help with, but don't necessarily _want_. Especially not in my current mood. But this is beyond me, beyond my selfish wants. Before I change my mind, I say:

"Then let the Senju make peace with the Uchiha."

If I thought Hashirama exuded _presence_ before, it's nothing compared to now. His features calm, and, paradoxically, every cell in my body feels that I've upset him. In the next instant, Hashirama's fingers brush against my temple. Point blank range. I panic. There's no weapon in his hand, but the Shodaime's eyes pierce like a kunai.

"You mean that?"

It's so soft, that I couldn't have heard it if he wasn't mere inches away. There's a worrisome carefulness. His hand shifts, and I realize he's forcing me to stare straight into his eyes, while he tests my pulse for falsehoods. _Why does he want to test my commitment to my **own** request? _I've barely met the man, but he's already a mish-mash of contradictions.

"Do you?" he repeats, "Mean that?"

I nod.

"What can one man do?" he presses.

"You're not merely that," I reply, and every fiber of my being hopes that this is true. I need it to be true. "You don't know how much sway you have." _How much sway you will have, in the future._

Hashirama's hand finally moves away. His palm ghosts over my eyes, almost as if he's going to pluck out my dojutsu. But I feel a feather-light touch, and I realize he's brushed my hair back, away from my face, extracting one last hint of my pulse, against my neck.

"The same could be said for you," he replies.

I think it's a compliment. That the moment of danger, where the god of shinobi tested me, is over.

That's not how everyone sees it, though.

Because in that moment, the figure of Uchiha Madara breaks through the trees.

* * *

It's one thing to have a goal, but another to have a plan. My poorly planned goal—unity between Senju and Uchiha—is going to die an early death right here and now. Because Madara has found me. Me and Hashirama.

In lieu of a chummy chat, the two's _aura_ by itself seems capable of suffocating someone. They stand no more than ten feet apart. Madara's katana erases another two feet. Then, Hashirama too draws his sword. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but as they glare daggers at each other, I think I see pain, then, respect underneath.

"Madara, you got stealthier."

"And you grow complacent. You should have used Sage arts to sense me."

I've had to break up my fair share of Boruto and Mitsuki's pissing contests. The future founders of Konoha are not the teenage boys on my squad, but right now, the two legends _are just teenagers_. Teenagers immeasurably powerful and sufficiently fallible to turn this into a reenactment of the Valley of the End.

Every pebble I walk on seems to slide under my feet.

"You followed me, Madara?" I ask warily.

Surprise, then amusement, rearranges Hashirama's face. "Madara, since when do you stalk girls? Surely this is an unworthy pastime, for my rival."

 _So childish, Shodaime_ , I think glumly. _No way Mr. Stoic will respond._

"I'm not stalking. And we're not rivals."

 _New Uchiha fact! Madara: also childish._

"Stalking a clanswoman, too," Hashirama tuts. "You're going be clan head one day, Madara. Isn't picking for yourself against the rules? "

I feel like I have a katon building in my mouth. Briefly, I consider actually breathing fire at the two.

"I-I'm going to change the clan system!" I declare mostly as a way to change the subject to unity, peace, rainbows, or any of that jazz. Except Hashirama grins so wide, I think his face will split. Madara's shocked, stony face makes me realize my announcement didn't come out right in context.

"A _revolutionary_. Never thought you'd go for that type, Madara."

"Revolutionary's more your type, isn't it?" The Uchiha scowl gets a little deeper. "Or perhaps you're looking for a lousy gambler, like yourself."

"Well, what say you to a gamble right now? The war between our clans continues tomorrow, Madara. Say we wager for some ground rules?"

"Ground rules?" I repeat, incredulous. _Is Hashirama taking my request to heart?_

"A negotiation," he nods. "I don't want to fight the Uchiha just because I'm told to."

Madara's eyes narrow. "Is that really the only reason you battle? Because your father demands it?"

"Your know a father's lecture as well as I do," Hashirama rubs his free hand to the back of his neck. "I wonder if we didn't give peace a second chance, Madara."

"What second chance?" Madara's sword quivers ever so slightly. "What chance did the Senju give to my younger brothers, when you killed them?"

The tension remounts.

But I've seen it, in their eyes. The Will of Fire. A metaphorical, fleeting thing yet to be named. The inter-village tension, which we grappled with in my era, takes the form of inter-clan tension. But in the end, they're the same. It's our prerogative to choose—again and again, as humans—if we let the dividing lines build or destroy us.

Their swords edge closer.

"Stop it!" I shout. "Your real enemy's not each other!"

I've cracked open a can of worms, unoriginal and unappetizing. But for this era, an alternate vision is something that hasn't been given voice, enough times. Madara and Hashirama pause, peering at me like I've spouted two heads.

That's when six other heads burst through the forest, sporting matching Uchiha battle uniforms. Naked swords point straight at Hashirama's heart.

 _"Madara!"_ I seethe. But he seems just as surprised.

"Lord Madara, we've been searching for you," one of the new arrivals says. "Are you alright?"

"Take the charge and leave," he says, never sparing me a glance.

All that talk earlier today about what _I want_ was just empty words, after all.

"First, we can help you finish off this Senju cur," a guard says. "It'll aid us greatly tomorrow if one of the other side's generals is injured. Even better, dead."

At the threats to his life, Hashirama lowers his sword. _He's insane_ , I think. _Actually insane._

Three Uchiha rush forward, only for their limbs to catch in a flowering tangle of branches. A protective shell twists around Hashirama's body. Several Uchiha issue fire, but by the time the branches have blackened and crumbled, Hashirama is no longer inside.

My Sharingan activates. There! Over fifty feet away on the bank downstream.

 _"Sarada!"_

Hashirama's voice is full of mirth. His distant figure waves excitedly. "Haruno Sarada, or Uchiha Sarada! Whatever you choose to be called! Here's my real message! Come with me to the Senju houses!"

I freeze.

If he thinks this makes me happy, he's dead wrong. This is exactly the thing that will ensure my death sentence among the Uchiha clan. Several lethal clan members, with their swords all drawn, surround me. _Or maybe this is what Hashirama wants? To force my hand?_ Regardless, I prepare myself for a drawn out fight. Then, suddenly, out of the charred cage that Hashirama left, twists a new, towering wooden statue. It resembles some mutant humanoid. If I squint, it sort of looks like an angry bodhisattva.

"We can leave now, Sarada! Just say the word!"

 _Leave now._

The brief moment burns up in flames.

A scorching _katon_ lights the scene until Hashirama's wooden guardian resembles a flaming pyre, crackling with a fierce anger. Through the acrid smoke, I glimpse Madara, eyes blazing, hand cupping his mouth, his features like the burning buddha.

 _But why?_ It'd easy, for him to abandon me. Is he so protective of the Sharingan bloodline? Does he hate the Senju that much?

I think of Furumi's words at the bathhouse. I think of soap. Shogi games. Dough twists.

 _Don't judge too quickly._

My feet carry me to the edge of the bank, as I pack all my force into splashing the icy river water onto the flames. The pyre hisses and keens, now a towering, smoking ruin. I clamber back onto the shore, ignoring the pointed looks shot at me.

"Hashirama!" I shout, not caring what the listeners will take from this. "Say hi to Itama for me!"

I watch the figure downstream slowly lower his own arms. I can't make out his expression. No way would Hashirama feel sad about leaving me, I tell myself. Perhaps he's sad about disappointing Itama. It's possible I'll never see that squirt again.

Because who knows what the Uchiha will do to me now.

 _Don't judge too quickly._

But what happens, when the clan judges me?

* * *

I don't get my eyes poked out.

(Yet.)

So there's that silver lining.

I am, however, placed under house arrest as soon as we arrive at the village, right as the sun fades over the horizon. This time, there's no welcoming crew. The group traveled at breakneck speed; me, the baggage, with my arms taped at my side, looking every inch an untrustworthy Uchiha blood traitor. To add salt to the wound, my stomach growled the entire trip—as traitorous as its owner. Everyone ignored it until we reached the Uchiha compound, where I'm shoved back into my guest room.

My window shades are drawn tight, masking the foggy night. I circle my futon, and wonder. How many seals are around this room? Can I dismantle them without triggering alarms? I'm so engrossed, that I almost miss the knock at the door. I expect Izuna, but a young girl enters. She's a wispy, petite thing, and walks with a slight limp. A tray with a bowl of congee is placed on the floor next to my futon.

"Um," the girl starts, a little guiltily. "This was all that was left in the kitchen."

Doubtful. The night before battle is a morale-boosting ceremony, and a nutrition-boosting one. There's sure to be more food than gruel, no matter the era. Still, I'm grateful that I was spared anything.

As I sit up, I can't help but notice an enormous scar along the girl's calf, trailing up her thigh. I try not to stare at the mottled, off-color pucker, as I pick up my spoon. Surprisingly, the girl doesn't leave as I ladle congee into my mouth, just stares intently at me. _Do I have rice on my face?_

"Um," she restarts. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That you can crack open the underworld with your pinky."

I nearly spew congee on her. "False," I sputter. There were stories about Edo Tensei. But that was sealed. No one dead can be retrieved, by anyone in the living.

She looks dubious. "But everyone's been talking about it."

"Take it from the source," I frown. "I can crack the ground, sometimes. With punches."

"That's it!" is the eager reply. "Can you teach me? Right now?"

 _Ah. Her leg._ Too many shinobi skills involve legwork, something that's beyond her. But why turn to _me_ to learn how to throw a punch? And _tonight?_ I consider telling her to not associate with me. Who knows what strange clan rules exist about that. But it's hard to be mean to someone who delivers you food. Plus, she has that little sister feel to her, like Himawari.

"What's your name?"

"Sayuri." She bows, the dip deep and formal. "I'm sorry to impose. It's just... I finally turned twelve this year. I was supposed to start in battles two years ago, but..." Her eyes travel to her leg.

"But why must you learn tonight?"

"Tomorrow's the biggest battle, in a very long time. " I recall Uchiha Tajima's long speech as Sayuri continues. "They've finally made the formal call to arms to the entire clan today. _Everyone_ is going."

 _Everyone._ The implications don't escape me, as I tell Sayuri that I can't teach her fine chakra control in one night. She wilts, and I feel a pang of guilt. I have more than an inkling what it means, to have a handicap in this clan. Perfection seems to be an ultimatum, not a goal. A physical defect means a loss in economic earning, social standing, and much, much more.

"So how'd you get that?"

Sayuri's face clouds but she obliges. The training accident happened when she was nine, three years ago. Her older brother's lightning jutsu had laced a practice katana, but it was too much for him to control. Sayuri became handicapped and scarred. By the clan's standards, her brother got off more easily. He was electrocuted, went into shock, and died.

As she tells me the details of the wound, an idea percolates. "Can I see the scar?"

She nods once, slowly. My hands hover over her mottled skin. As my palms begin to glow, she gasps but doesn't move. "It's not the entire leg." I've guessed as much, seeing her kind of limp. "It's the nerves along your knee." Along the tendon, to be exact.

"That's what the healers said." Her eyes are large and haunted. "I-I can't be a kunoichi with this."

"Tell you what," I sigh. "We can't fix this entirely, but we can make it better."

Sayuri's mouth hangs open, but her eyes burn with hope. "By tomorrow?"

"What's the rush?" I frown, but I know the answer. It's so hard to prove yourself, when you've already been overlooked. She needs a big debut. A big battle that's a once in a blue moon chance.

"I'll need some hot water, a scalpel, a sewing kit, a brush and ink, and a piece of paper." I've used these things so many times on field missions that I don't even pause to think.

Sayuri's newfound quickness belies her haste to gather the items, to change her destiny. Then, at the door, she stops.

"Um, what's a scalpel?"

"A small, sharp knife." I smile tiredly, and roll up my sleeves. "And make sure the water's boiling."

* * *

Performing surgery is not how I imagined I would spend the last remaining hours until the battle tomorrow. But at least no one disturbs my room. Everyone's busy catching up on sleep for the big day. Meanwhile, I'm now feeling wide awake, astonished by a young girl's calm agreement to me slicing up her knee. Surgery can't be common here.

"If you can crack open the gates of hell with a fingernail," she says devoutly. "I trust you."

This is how rumors get exaggerated.

"I told you, I can't," I sigh. "Hold still." My brush traces the seal holding her knee immobile against the white futon. Then, I poise the knife over her mottled flesh. I bet Sayuri wouldn't have shifted even if I brought down an axe.

"Are you sure your futon won't get stained?" the girl asks.

I would laugh at the absurdity of someone worrying about my futon when a stranger's cutting into her leg. But I don't break my concentration, as I apply chakra to her nerves. This a short procedure patented by Lady Tsunade, but it's detailed. It requires at least a year of training, because the procedure sends the cells' natural generation process into overdrive. Too much of a good thing is toxic. I bite my lip on the final stretch, and then, my heated needles is quickly sewing up the cut. When I'm done, I let out the breath I've been holding.

Sayuri gapes, a mix of awe and disbelief on her features.

"That's it?"

"That's it." I sprawl bonelessly on the futon, despite that the bedding was my makeshift surgery table just a second ago. "Don't worry. It's normally fast. This is an emergency procedure in the field for cauterized wounds."

I'm met with confused silence. "You said your scar was from a blade with a lightning jutsu," I explain. "That creates similar qualities to a burn. Getting to the nerves required me to reopen a fresh wound. Then, I stimulate and rewire the nerves. Then we leave the detailed repairs to your own body."

"That's why you sewed me up like a blanket?"

"Like a blanket," I nod, as I resist burrowing into mine.

I'm suddenly aware of how tired I am. I don't relish breaking the bad news, but I force myself to cut to the chase. "By the way, the battle tomorrow's a no go. I'm sorry I lied about that part." Indeed, this procedure doesn't get Sayuri back up and running for tomorrow. But that's good, in my view. I'd rather those around Himawari's age don't go to the front lines against Senju and who knows who else.

The important thing is: this procedure will get Sayuri that kunoichi career. In a few weeks, or months, but most definitely a few years, she'll run as she was meant to.

The young girl can't hold back her tears, as she hugs me. I smile and awkwardly hug back. Vaguely, I wonder if I wish I wasn't in her position. Because healing knee or not, traitor or not, I have a feeling I'll still be dragged out to battle.

* * *

As predicted, I'm roused at the crack of dawn.

It's not ideal, three hours of sleep. Fortunately, it was the sleeping-dead kind where fatigue kept me from nightmares. I stumble to the door, and am shocked by the sight of Uchiha Furumi. In the candle light, the field commander looks like she got even less sleep than I. In her hands is a familiar gray bundle: the Uchiha battle ensemble.

"My orders are to join, after all?"

I haven't dressed. It's not as a symptom of sleepiness. Rather, the clothes Izuna gave me seems somehow wrong to wear today. Furumi seems to notice my lack of dress too. I half-expect her to scold me. Then, to my mounting surprise, she wordlessly hands me, along with the uniform, three polished plates of armor. I examine their lustre and size. They're for my shoulders and torso.

 _What have I done right?_

"My husband and I," Furumi says carefully. "Have not seen our daughter so happy in years. Ever since we lost our son."

 _Sayuri._ I put the pieces together, but I don't accept the armor Furumi proffers. Silently, I put the plates aside, then I fold up my futon and place the bedding into the corner of the room. As the older Uchiha waits by the door to escort me to the troops, I tug on the dark pants. But I make no move to put on anything else over my sleeping layers.

The question in her eyes disappears.

"I will bring other clothes."

When Furumi brings me a crisp uniform without any fan insignia on it, I know she understands.

* * *

The entire march to the battleground, Izuna doesn't speak a word to me. I sense betrayal in his eyes, as he wordlessly takes in my clothes: armorless and fan-less. Someone probably told Izuna what happened by the river. It's strange, because he's still obligated to keep an eye on me. He doesn't march beside me today, but trails from behind, doing his duty and no more.

Two hours into the trek, the Uchiha in front of me start jostling each other. Several break formation. Since this is considered very ill discipline indeed, I reason that the front must have been attacked, or we've encountered a very large roadblock. In my haste to scan the tall trees for enemies, I almost ram into a familiar armored breastplate.

Madara.

This is... unexpected. Besides his father, he's the general leading the forces. As such, he's supposed to be marching up front.

"Hn," is all I'm regaled with, as the troops hastily reassemble. I expect Madara to leave, after this odd test of his troops' discipline. But then he takes one big stride over to my right, and settles in to march beside me. I can feel the surrounding shinobi's eyes on us. Izuna's gaze near-incinerates my back.

So I stare at the surrounding forest path. But my old tactic works less well, when I know neither Madara or I would strike up conversation, anyway.

The battle field is a large, grassy valley flanked by forested hills. There, the other allied clans are already assembled. My eyes scan the hill for the Hagoromo clan, which is one of the tactical reasons I came back to the Uchiha. But their symbols are nowhere to be found. Instead, I find three unfamiliar clan insignias, waving from their respective banners farther up the large hill our side has taken over. I jog away from the Uchiha tents to explore.

"Don't wander."

It's Madara, eagle-eyed as ever. "You should attend the discussion of the battle plan, if you want to gain repute today."

"I'm not interested in collecting Senju heads," I hiss. "I thought I made that clear. I don't know why I'm still _forced_ to be here."

His face never shifts. "Do you know who _allowed_ you to be here, today?"

"Who?" I should thank them. With a large knuckle sandwich.

"Me."

 _What's there to brag about?_ "Thanks for the favor," I glower.

Madara gives me the closest thing his face has to a puzzled look. "You would have been stripped of your rank, otherwise."

"What rank?" I say, confused. "I don't have any rank."

"That's true." He pauses. "You also had no ties. That means someone had to bear the consequences of your actions."

"What?" I frown. I don't want to owe anyone. Was it Furumi, who woke me up and thanked me for her daughter's surgery? Surely not Izuna, who won't associate with me anymore. As I stare at Madara's impassive face, I realize the answer is none of the previous two. I look to Madara's fisted hands, and, closing in so swiftly he has no chance to turn away, I pick up one hand and see the faint mark of lacerations seared across the palm.

"But you're the _heir!_ "

"No one is above clan law."

"The clan system is broken!" I myself sound broken. Like a broken record. But I'd rather sound broken, than let myself be that. "You and Hashirama could have settled this yesterday!"

Dark eyes narrow and he doesn't say anything back, merely shifts his hand away as if I've contaminated it. In this moment, I hate the qualities that make Uchiha, Uchiha. We feel too passionately, Mama once said. That's why we show nothing at all.

"Why defend the clan system?" I seethe. "At least give me a reason. If you like it so much, then why defend _me?"_

I see his mask crack. He turns, before I see the human beneath the soldier.

"Thank you for healing the girl," Madara says.

Then he sweeps away, cloak billowing, into one of the tents.

* * *

It begins with drums.

Pounding over the hills like a rhythmic, ruthless melody. Each resounding _don_ reverberating in echoes that rain over the valley, which is slowly being filled with people. I strain my neck over the edge of our hill, and wonder where the Senju are.

I see the battle tower, on the large hill opposite ours. The tower is more of a rickety wooden frame than the elaborate pagoda structures that exist in Uchiha village. I activate my Sharingan, and I see the charred edges of the tower, like it's been sieged once too many. But it's still standing. That must mean the side that chose that tower to fight, has been victorious before.

Although I refused to attend the battle plan meeting, I do stroll around their tent, eavesdropping. It's easy pickings. The generals and their aides have to give instructions to the other soldiers. I quickly figure out the plan to siege the tower, and the division of labor.

It'll be a long, gruesome day, to end a long, gruesome war.

Two vanguard flanks will coalesce with the front line of shinobi marching on foot. Then, the most experienced Sharingan-users bring up the back, to storm through the enemy lines when there's an opening, and make sure the tower crumbles, killing anyone inside. Then, take the generals' and the daimyo's head, if he's located in that tower.

Eventually, all the soldiers around the camps get assigned into a division.

Except me.

I find Izuna, as he's readying to enter the valley with his unit. If he can't forgive me, then maybe he can't care enough to hide me from the naked truth.

"What does the clan want from me?" I ask bluntly.

Izuna's response is hollow. "Nothing."

"Then why I am I here? Why aren't I assigned to a division?" _Nothing makes sense._

He looks surprised, and stops polishing his sword to stare at me. "You said you wouldn't fight the Senju."

 _So someone told him._ "Then why am I even here?" I repeat.

His eyes search my face. I don't know what he's looking for. Remorse? Guilt? There's a lot of both in me, but not for the decision Izuna's mad at.

Finally, he shrugs. "Madara's orders."

 _To discipline me? Humiliate? Get me killed in the fray?_ It doesn't matter, now.

"Okay," I swallow with difficulty. "But before I die, or you die, I should apologize."

Izuna gets a hard look in his eye.

"It's not that I want to go against the Uchiha clan," I say.

"Then _why!_... Yesterday!..." Izuna rakes a hand through his hair, and stands. Apparently, this is the straw on the metaphorical camel's back. He raises his polished, gleaming sword, and I see my own grim reflection. Then, with a clang, he sheathes it. "I don't know what you _are!"_

"You do." But he's not entirely wrong. I try all the things I _can_ tell him. "I'm Uchiha Sarada. My father gave me a strange first name, but I'm one of you, just as he was. My mother didn't come from this clan, but she loved it all the same. And yes, I'm a _bastard_ , but that doesn't make me less an Uchiha."

"So why did you leave?" Izuna's dark eyes burn. "And why choose to come back, if you're not going to help us?"

"I'm looking for someone," I say, honestly.

"Who?" Izuna asks. He towers above me, leaning close as he spits out a name. _"A Senju?"_

He's too close. I can't meet his red eyes. Clan vengeance has both dulled and sharpened Izuna. I'm afraid I'll scrape myself along his edges. I shake my head vigorously, while wondering if I'm any different, at the end of the day.

"Not the Senju."

"Then who?"

"A clan called the Otsutsuki."

Izuna stops trembling. He's very still. "Don't know 'em," he says, and steps back. "You're making it up."

"I'm not," I say dully. "They killed my family. They can kill us all."

"What do you know of family? Tell me how I can trust you now, when you tried to leave for the Senju," he murmurs. "Even after we accepted you as one of our own. Even when you admit the blood that flows through you is _Uchiha."_

There's no answer to give. I let him walk away, to join his division, to join the shouts of the battle below.

This time, he's not cutting open a path for me.

* * *

The sun beats down at midday, merciless.

I watch from my hill as the battle unfolds, trying to tell myself it'll be okay.

Nerves are always a bigger problem if friends are fighting and I'm not. I've invented rituals for myself, lest I go crazy with worry. _There will be peace, soon. There will be Konoha. Then there will be the village alliance. I don't know how, or why, but there will be._

In a way, what I'm here for is no different than what the people in the valley—desperately stabbing at each other—are doing. I'm not the Nanadaime Hokage. I'm not even Boruto, with his disarming charm in the unlikeliest of times. I'm Papa's daughter. Someone who works in isolation, who wants peace but craves vengeance. Perhaps it's only my brain that tells me one is better than the other.

"When will there be peace?" I whisper to the wind.

"You chase an illusion."

Surprise makes me wobble on my rocky perch. Thankfully, I don't tumble down the ledge, as I turn.

It's Madara, in full battle regalia. He's an impressive sight, in a billowing black cloak trimmed with scarlet, armor gleaming under the midday sky. If I were a proper, respectful soldier, I would bow to my general. Instead, I stare mutely and wonder. Do all generals go out last, and if so, is Hashirama not there yet, either? What about Itama?

Madara's gaze travels onto the sprawl of the battlefield, as if he senses my thoughts. Belatedly, I register his words to me.

"I'd rather chase an illusion, than this," I reply.

His eyes are dark, fully lucid. "All Uchiha know that illusions are built from great sorrow. But we persist in chasing them."

"You too?" I push. "What's your illusion?"

"Peace."

My breath hitches.

"Vengeance," he adds.

And by now, there is no question.

Madara's repeating my words, back to me.

I want to turn around and demand answers. _What do those things mean to him? Which of the two would he choose, if their paths diverged?_ But when I stand, his tall figure is already walking away to the heart of the encampment. His final instructions to me linger where he does not.

"You're due in battle now. Do a good job, and you will be fully accepted into the clan."

* * *

I slide carefully into position between two other shinobi as we report for duty. It's a familiar three-person unit, except the two shinobi by my side don't resemble Boruto or Mitsuki in the least. One is a female Uchiha slightly older than me with a swept ponytail and narrow eyes. The other is a man I assume is from one of our ally clans. His cheeks are covered with paint, and he smells slightly... feral. For some reason, I feel like he's here to sniff me out if I try to run.

"Heya, Hime," the non-Uchiha greets me with a pointed grin. "Heard a bit of your story."

Of course he has. I wouldn't be surprised if the clan gave him something to sniff out my scent later too. When he introduces himself as Inuzuka Kizaru, it all makes sense in that sad-little-laugh kind of way.

Our team takes a cloistered pass down the hillside that's strewn with rocks. It's easy to get down, but difficult to get up. This makes it perfect as a tactical route. We quickly make our way down into the melee below, with one thing as our target.

"You take his arms. And you take his legs."

"And _you?"_ I say dubiously.

"I'll take his throat." Kizaru licks his lips.

Uchiha Manako shudders, while I count my blessings that, at least, Inuzuka Kizaru is on _my_ team. On the other hand, I'm full of trepidation for our target. The elder who assigned us this mission gave a nasally chuckle that still rings in my head. The clan elders must know about my little Senju fiasco.

 _'Capture Senju Tobirama, dead or alive.'_

 _'Preferably dead.'_

We're about halfway to the enemy's side. An increasing number of fallen bodies are strewn about the valley edge. Bleeding out. Moaning. Dying. Others, I imagine, could be saved with the proper treatment. Lady Tsunade or Mama would summon Katsuyu. But there are too many for me to save. From the looks of their emblazoned attire, most are not from our side.

A loud groan comes from a fallen body a few feet away. I hear rambling names, as if the fallen soldier sees familiar faces in his delirium.

"Ignore it," Manako instructs when I pause.

"Yeah, battle's not for soft-hearted pussies," scoffs Kizaru.

I'm not stopped because I'm soft-hearted. On the man's body, I see a gleaming pendant with an arresting symbol. Quickly, I scan his features. Pale, but with hair that's not quite the right color. I kneel and feel his heartbeat. He won't make it.

"Who are you?" I say, careful not to shake him. I try to tamp down the urgency in my voice. "Tell me your name."

"Bring me back," he moans again. "I want to see my daughter Tsukino. She's... at the tower."

"That's rich," barks Kizaru. "Don't bring your daughter to battle if you can't handle the consequences."

"We're wasting time," Manako sneers. "We should be heading for the Senju rear unit, before they disperse." Indeed, that's the latest report about Tobirama's whereabouts. A Sharingan user sacrificed herself, for that intel.

"Maybe he can tell us how the Senju side's organized," I say.

In truth, it's not that I'm not interested in. This man's pendant bears a familiar shape: a crescent moon, next to an orb. The symbol looks as if the moon were swallowing the earth.

 _The Otsutsuki clan symbol._

"Who are you?" I ask again. "I'll deliver your dying message to your daughter."

"O—" his mouth forms the shape. But the only thing that comes out is blood, as a kunai punctures his lung.

I nearly awaken my Sharingan and launch myself at Manako.

"He's an enemy," she says simply. "And he was already dying."

Kizaru nods. "We need to hurry, before more on our side dies."

I swallow the bile that's risen to my mouth. Then, I take the pendant from the man whose true identity I will never know.

"I can't come with you."

"Excuse me?" Manako says, her voice rising. "You're deserting? You think you're so special, to come and go as you please?"

I ignore her as I test the man's pulse one more time. But he's gone.

"They'll be consequences! Lord Madara won't protect you anymore!" Manako hisses. "Lord Izuna's already given up on you!" She stomps over, as if to fight me.

"Careful, now." Kizaru waves a warning hand to both of us. "You know what our mission is. There's a lot of pay wrapped up in this, so I'm not willing to shoulder your mistakes."

"This isn't about payment," I say.

"Money's how your clan survives," Kizaru frowns. "How all our clans survive."

"This is so much bigger than clan survival." I swallow. I feel like I've lost something more just than this lead. _Why am I even here?_ "I'm sorry, but I'm abandoning the mission."

Kizaru steps toward me. "Hey, hey, I think you know what I'm authorized to do if you say that." He's cut off, as Manako steps in between him and me.

"Leave her," the Uchiha woman snarls. "She's only weighing us down."

"But—"

"I'll deal with Lord Madara and Izuna," she says coldly. "You choose for yourself, Inuzuka. Capture Tobirama and let your clan become rich, or hang around with this stupid pacifist, who doesn't even know ally from enemy."

I can't retort. I'm no pacifist. But it's true that I don't know who, or where, my enemy is. I can't rope just anyone into my battle, just as they shouldn't rope me into theirs.

This thought tastes lonely, somehow.

* * *

At least I'm free now.

Free in the middle of a raging war.

I half-expect Madara or Izuna to come popping out of a bush. But there's no one here on the outskirts of the battle. There's only death. Faceless bodies, near my feet.

 _Do I just go?_

No. The pendant's owner could have clan relatives, here, with similar clues to the Otsutsuki. This is a rare chance, and I can't let it slip by.

I look to the path that Manako and Kizaru took. Then I look back at the path from where we came. I'm more than halfway to the other side of the valley. To the hill where the Senju and their clan allies have assembled. To the tower, where the pendant man's daughter is.

I'm going to have to join the action, whether I like it or not.

There's an advantage to not having an Uchiha symbol on my back. The Uchiha fan is like a psychological weapon and a blazing target in battle. Luckily, people pause as they assess whose side I'm on. That's enough time for me to slip away. I'm just an average-height, skinny girl no one cares to waste time on, weaving through the clashing swords and spilling blood. I don't stay in one place long enough for someone assess my spinning red eyes through my lenses.

The base of the tower is guarded more loosely than expected. The Uchiha allies haven't made it this far into Senju territory, but perhaps they've diverted away a number of guards. Distantly, I hear shouts and flares of katon no jutsu behind me, as I creep through the rocks and foliage on my ascent up the hill. As I climb, I wonder if my previous teammates are engaging Tobirama right now.

As I approach the tower, I match my body to exactly what I remember. The man's real pendant chain shines around my neck. I hope it attracts his family, or his clan. I also _henge_ a gash on my face, so that I'm bleeding heavily from above the eye, to make it obvious why I've returned to the tower.

 _Say my name._ I chant inwardly as I approach the first guards. I don't dare to greet them first. I have no clue what this guy's normal voice sounds like, and even a rasp that's off can alert a trained shinobi. Unlike the Rokudaime, I've never been able to master vocal node transformation to the point of disguising my voice as an older man's.

The first guards let me pass, and I make a beeline for the first floor stairwell. I'm about to take my second creaking step when I hear:

"Hey you! What's the problem?"

I turn, with effort.

It's a bearded man with a Senju crest emblazoned on his back. "Password clearance for the first level."

I pretend to be disoriented and hurt, as I lean against the railing. I hope he leaves me alone, if he thinks I can't continue to climb. No such luck. He approaches, and I turn to see if anyone's watching. Thankfully, a large explosion of fire and smoke at the foot of the hill have diverted most guards' attention.

The hill is officially under siege. I don't have much time, so I lower my knees and crash a lateral chop into the Senju's neck.

Then, I run for it.

Up the stairs. Four, five, at a time, Sharingan winking on and off as I scan each floor for the crescent moon symbol. The wood creaks with effort. Certain planks are blackened to near-charcoal. I wonder how long this tower will hold up. How it's holding up now. I remember Hashirama's wood jutsu, how he made that charred bodhisattva grow new branches.

I start to smell smoke. Plumes of it, following me up the stairs as I ascend. The tower's interior looks like a tall monastery. Everything is made of wood. People on each level rush to the balconies, carrying arrows, spears, anything that serves as projectiles. But no one seems to be wearing a pendant.

A hand grabs my foot, just as the tower gives one great lurch.

I glance down. _The bearded Senju!_

I take out the kunai I've been saving. It's clearly an Uchiha kunai, so I try to be quick as I pry away the man's fingers. Only, he lets go as soon as the metal tip grazes him.

"Who are you?" The man's eyes are wide.

"Who are _you?"_ I toss back.

Another explosion rocks the tower, and we both tumble down several stairs as the tower sways dangerously to and fro. His beard scratches my face, and I turn, indignant that I'm buried under the stranger. Then, as I stare into his eyes, I realize he's not a Senju at all. I know those eyes. I know them exhibiting a range of emotions. But I know them particularly well in anger.

"Izuna?" I breathe, in my real voice.

"S-Sarada?"

Another explosion. The smell of smoke gets stronger.

"Why are you here?" he exclaims, as he hauls me to my feet and puts me on the first landing. I peer down and swallow. It's been a long time since I've been at this height. We must be on the sixth floor now, second from the top.

"Same for you," I say. "I got dispatched to kill Tobirama, but I decided against it."

I expect him to goggle, or grow angry. Instead, Izuna laughs bitterly, and points behind me.

"Well, here's your second chance."

* * *

I'm not arrogant enough to think I can take on the Niidaime in his prime. But this Senju Tobirama should be younger, more inexperienced, right?

Wrong. Tobirama looks older than me, armored, with substantial bulk under that armor, and a speedy lightness as he moves fluidly down the outdoor hallway. As he walks, he shouts orders to the archers on this floor.

"Evacuate if you're not shooting!" he barks. "Engage the enemy on the ground! Take at least two Uchiha heads each, before you retreat!"

In his steely voice, I hear none of the casual warmth of his elder brother, and none of the endearing childlike quality of his younger brother. Most of all, I hear his sheer hatred for the Uchiha, as he describes the techniques his fighters should use should they encounter one. I see Izuna's perspective, now. I wonder how in the world I could have contemplated joining the Senju, if they have such family members.

"If you're not fighting, leave," Izuna whispers. But there's urgency in his voice. He grabs me by the shoulder, as if he'd drag me away by force.

I struggle. I can't leave, when I'm so close! I need to find someone—anyone—who knows this man with the pendant. Then, Izuna's hand loosens, and a sudden chill runs up my spine.

"Sir," Izuna says. His Senju ensemble is perfect, as he military salutes.

I try to look nonchalant as narrow eyes pinpoint my face.

 _"What's the problem?"_ Tobirama asks. "I ask my men to get along."

"No problem," the transformed Izuna is cool as a cucumber. His Sharingan's dismantled, too. He looks every inch a loyal Senju soldier.

Then Izuna swings me up on his back and tosses me down the stairs.

I barely cushion, straightening to shout some obscene words, when I see Izuna and Tobirama begin to fight on the floor above the staircase landing.

The blood leaves my face as I realize—Izuna's just saved my life.

Tobirama was asking for a password. ' _What's the problem?'_ he said. That's the same thing Izuna asked me when he was pretending to be a guard. That's the code trigger phrase.

There's no time to berate myself for stupidity. I consider leaving to look for clues to the Otsutsuki. After all, I'm running out of time. The fire has been set to the bottom of the tower, and it's licking its way up, despite the numerous suiton that are being fired in hissing spurts.

I glance back up and see Izuna's sweating face, his _henge_ transformation gone, as he clashes swords with Tobirama.

"Retreat," Tobirama's blade lances across Izuna's. "Or die. I imagine you'd want to join your father."

 _Father?_

 _Uchiha Tajima's dead?_

I bolt back up the stairs.

In the process, I drop my own transformation. Maybe Itama or Hashirama told Tobirama about me. Maybe it can stall him.

I've never been quite so naïve. Tobirama sees me and fires three shuriken, straight to my vitals. I jump, but one succeeds in slashing across my collarbone, not enough to kill but enough to make me lose breath in pain. My mind races. I have only kunai, and my hands. I don't want to kill Tobirama, but I also can't let Izuna die. He's clearly losing. The news of his father's death, real or not, has the intended effect.

Then, I see it. Tendrils of new wood, lacing around the base of the shaking tower, holding it up momentarily. If I can find the source, I can find Hashirama. _But will he help me? Will his promise hold?_

"Tobirama!" I shout as their swords clang faster, sparks erupting along each of their blades. "Stop this! Your brother Hashirama promised me peace!"

He pays me no heed. I must seem like a poor liar. Or a raving lunatic.

Izuna stumbles, badly, and I see no other option as Tobirama's blade bears down with a cruel gleam. Groggily, as if in a dream, I rush forward to put myself between two of the greatest fighters in this generation, with only chipped kunai in hand. Against their katana, I've little to no chance. But I have enough chakra left in me to heal from any non-lethal wounds. I can survive. I have to.

Unfortunately, I've no sooner wedged myself between them, than Tobirama aims for me. In that split second, Izuna swivels my body, crushing it against his, as he takes the blow.

Blood paints the walls of the tower a scarlet color, as vivid as Izuna's eyes .

We both crash on the floor. Breathing hard, I crawl away from Izuna's stiffened grip, which speaks to medical shock, rather than his earlier intent to keep me alive. Tobirama's above us. His eyes are blisteringly cold.

"So you're _both_ Uchiha. You thought to infiltrate our base?"

"You're just like the stories. Senju Tobirama, right?" I say, more words pouring from my mouth, gibberish that's near-nonsensical. Anything, to buy time, as I hunch my body around Izuna's. Frantically, my hands force chakra to Izuna's red gash, which extends from the shoulder blade to the lower back. My hands can't cover the red mess that leaks onto the floor. _Fuck, I see bone._

"Who are you?" Tobirama's gaze narrows. "His sister?"

"Hey, tell me, is the Uchiha patriarch really dead?" I continue in my ramblings, sweat collecting on my brow. "Did you kill him? That's not a nice thing to do, you know."

He really does pause this time, as if my raving has confirmed what my previous action had not: that I'm half-mad. Maybe I am.

"I'll finish off the rest, too," says Tobirama, almost pityingly. "That way, no one in the family suffers."

I need to move. But Izuna's body is fading, even as I pour more chakra into him. I feel myself grow excruciatingly weary, but _Ican'tlethimdieIcan'tlethimdieIcan'tlethimdieIcan'tletBorutodie._

More chakra. My vision clouds. More chakra. My breathing stops. More chakra. This feels familiar.

 _Where am I?_

I see a sword swing down. Tobirama's? Otsutsuki's? A dark figure sweeps forward, like a giant bird of prey, and I blink. I blink many times. It's no bird. It's Madara. _The new clan head?_ He looks it. His face chills my blood to ice.

Almost like a movie, I see Tobirama's body crash through the sixth floor, down a level. I blink again, and I see the archers on this floor laid out like dead bodies. _Are they dead? Who killed them? Who killed_ _ _—__

I'm still shaking, but I can't stop my healing jutsu. I feel my chakra being drawn out to a wisp, as if against my will. Or as if my own sanity depends on it. _Izuna!_ my mind screams. _W_ hy _isn't Izuna waking up? Why isn't Boruto—_

My vision blurs again, this time swimming with tears.

"Let me go," I sob.

The world lurches. Or maybe that's just the tower, now on its last legs.

"Izuna," someone says, coming to kneel next to me. Is it Madara?

Then, I hear, so softly I almost fail to catch it:

"S-Sarada."

It's the first time I've heard Madara say my name. It sounds awful, coming from him. I don't need to hear it from him.

"Let me go," I repeat, saltwater dripping onto the back of my hands as I hunch over the dying man. On the other side of my palms, Izuna's heart stabilizes. Warmth returns under my fingers.

My chakra is nearly gone, though. I'm so tired. Physically tired. Mentally tired. Soul-deep and gut wrenching tired. I feel like I'm waking up from a dream, but I'm not sure, because there's layers to it. Like my brain is being peeled back. Vaguely, I hear Madara breathe a sigh beside me, but I can't see beyond the blurry image. He must be relieved his brother's alive.

Suddenly, I feel calloused fingers on my face, wiping away my tears.

The hands are surprisingly warm.

It's too much. I'm so relieved that Izuna lives, so relieved that no one died this time, saving me, that I let my deepest secret spill. It's not about me being from the future.

Madara draws away, as if burned.

"You… you have…"

"Let me go." I don't want to hurt anyone like this anymore. I don't want to be the cause of death. "Let me go, Boruto."

The world swims in pools of water. Concentric circles, like a koi jumping into a pond. Vaguely, I register shouts around me. Someone pulls Izuna's body away, and I'm left with nothing in my hands. Another tug pulls at my arm, and I'm dragged down stairs. I register heat licking up against my cheeks, as if the whole building were on fire. Maybe it is. Maybe the entire world. A part of me wouldn't mind, if it burned.

With fire.

Black fire.

* * *

My fingers register soft dirt beneath, raked into piles, as if I've been clawing at the ground.

The remnants of spring drift to my nose, strangely smoky and charred, as I watch spongy bits of moss drift down from the trees.

I blink.

"Where am I?" I ask, throat dry. "Are we still fighting?"

"You're free."

I blink again. Madara's face is before me.

Another figure's next to me, stirring on the patchy grass. Izuna. I sit up and watch his eyes open, expecting anything but the expression I see there. In my time here, I've shocked him, saddened him, angered him, betrayed him. But I've never seen myself _revered_ by him, as if I were a deity.

This is the final chasm. I know we will never be friends again.

I look to Madara. He's still standing a foot away, like a bird of prey—tall, looming, waiting. Always waiting.

"Am I free to go?"

"I can't stop you," says Madara. "Your eyes see beyond mine."

I wait for Izuna to protest. I know that he looks up to his brother the most. But he doesn't say anything except give the tiniest nod.

I also wait for Madara to ask questions. Like, _why did you hide this from us?_ Or, _will you use the Mangekyou Sharingan to help the Uchiha take over the world?_

But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything more.

"Okay," I say. "I'm going."

I pick myself up and walk.

It's easy, right?

After all, I've done it many times, before.

As the branches crack underneath my feet, I wonder why Madara doesn't stop me, this time. A small part of me thought he was prepared to chase me to the Senju and back. Initiate me as a fellow Uchiha.

 _But why would he?_

I have killed people far closer to me than he is.

And now Madara knows it.

After all, he can see it in my eyes.

.

.

.

 _tbc_

.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu: No story's ever complete without twists, aye? Backstory will be revealed, eventually.  
_


	5. lacquer 1

_._

 _My family numbers three people—the healer, the avenger, and me._

 _Considering my parents, people expected_ something.

" _Pity she didn't take the medic course from the get-go. Could have been the next Tsunade."_

" _She's got the Sharingan, though. Any signs of… you know?"_

 _Healer. Avenger._

 _I'm neither, yet._

 _But even if I grew into a mix of the two, what would that be?_

* * *

.

 **Triptych**

.

05

.

 _creating_

 _the centerpiece_

.

* * *

Like an addict, or an exile, I listen for news.

But the ninja world can be like shadows, to those who don't fight. A month ago, I walked away from battle, from the Uchiha and Senju tearing each other apart. As long as the fighting continues, I'm not welcome back. I'm a liability, with weak connections and weaker convictions. Unknown things—who died, and who lives—begin to pile onto old regrets lurking within sleepless nights. But when I wake, I walk forward. Mama was a healer; Papa, an avenger. I am— _should be_ —a survivor. This time, I'll make sure everyone survives. Shino-sensei used to tell us to keep journals. Writing down my thoughts now helps.

Wake, write, walk, in cycles.

 _Forward._

Eventually, the cycle becomes a job: a scrivener and messenger service. My shop is nestled at the perimeter of a large village in the heart of Fire territory. It's slow-going at first, so, between client assignments, I focus on honing jutsu and storing chakra.

The mornings are warmer now, with rays of dusty sun filtering through the cracks in my walls. Today, street sounds seep inside and break my meditation: wives off to the market, barking street dogs, farmers clinking their scythes and plows, children running off to their morning chores. The daring kids hammer the sides of the large ewer that I keep outdoors to catch rain. The jug issues a high, tinny sound: empty. If there are no customers, I'll go draw water.

"Sis Four-Eyes!"

These customers are not the paying type. I step outside for some light morning exercise: _catching neighborhood monkeys_.

My first catch is a handful of big-eared, grubby urchin, who squawks and wriggles something fierce. "Geroff!"

"Oy, Takeshi!" I'm careful not to let the boy tear his thin shirt. "You have chores to get to, don't you?"

"What's the point?" he grumbles. "I dun wanna be a farmer."

At this blasphemy, Takeshi's friends—a gangly beansprout and a twitchy fox—gasp in unison. "Your cute new baby sister's depending on you, to eat," I say, hiding my tugging smile. "Have you finally named her?"

"Yeah, Sayuri—" ( _What are the odds_ , I smile ruefully) "—but she ain't cute." Takeshi makes a slovenly face. "She eats all the food in the house and then poops it out."

"Mine vomits," Beansprout supplies, as if this were a contest.

"Well, you don't have to grow up to be a farmer." I swipe the excess dirt from Takeshi's cheek, before he can stop me. "But know this. I don't associate with lazy bums."

The boys protest vehemently at this, but I shoo them onward, watching from my hut as they march away, exchanging heated whispers. They can't see me now, so I let a smile stretch across my face.

"Whatta weirdo. O'course we _have to_ be farmers!"

"Yeah, she's weird, but that's what's fun about Sis."

"Hey! Think I can be a courier? She could teach me."

"Dad says to never trust girls who can read. They're bad luck!"

 _Bad luck, indeed._ Unluckily, I do more than read: I write and deliver. My business, after a month, has a trickle of villagers venturing in with small requests—deliver a trinket, or immortalize amateur love poems. I know Takeshi from having delivered news of his family's new baby to extended relatives, for a pittance fee. Pittance fees are all folks in my neighborhood can afford, though they never let me do it pro bono. At the end of the day, my little business scrimps enough to continue into the next week.

But business is more than a way to survive.

It's a way to get what I want: _information and connections._ On the Otsutsuki and otherwise. _  
_

Mid-morning, I return from drawing water from the murky village well. I'm down to pences and lint for money, so I'll need to hunt for dinner. Or it's more watery gruel today.

A bear is waiting for me outside the entrance to my shack. He's hunched and broad, wrapped in tawny beast furs, face hooded. And silent. I'm wary of customers who are wary of me. I walk inside without making eye contact. At my wobbly table, I tap my fingers and play a guessing game while waiting. What does he want? _Congratulations to a niece's marriage? A business accounting letter?_

At long last, as the sun casts the streets outside in dusty caramel, the man ambles in. Somber eyes survey the cool but barren interior of my hut: A thin blanket in the corner, a battered pot, a water jug, and little else by way of living amenities. I admit, it's not convincing, as the home of a learned scribe.

"Where's your father?"

"I'm an orphan."

"Yet you can write letters?"

"Learned from the temple monks," I lie crisply. "You just need something written? I deliver, too."

His thin lips press and release. "What's your name?"

"Kagami." Meaning mirror. It's what people here first called me, when they saw my glasses. Somehow, it's appropriate for someone who is between worlds, without clan, empty. I pause and reassess my client. Customers who ask for names are difficult.

"And you are?"

"Just a messenger." His face shutters like a window. "I need you to write a message, and deliver it quickly."

"Where to?"

Instead of an answer, the wrap of bear fur bristles, and, from it, a rusted dagger emerges, beelining toward my hand. The tines sink into my table with a loud _thunk_. "Acceptable reflexes," the man murmurs, as if he didn't almost give me tetanus and skewer my table in one fell swoop. "How quickly can you get this message to Ueno Castle?"

"Tomorrow morning." I frown as I prod my abused furniture.

Another issue exists besides the client's bent for defacing private property. Anyone serious about relaying messages to castles can afford alternate courier services. Certain destinations all but require trumpets and streamers announcing deliveries. The castle's probably one. My client's sincerity balances against his knowledge that my shop is bare bones, and lacking in trumpets, metaphorical or otherwise.

"You sure you want to use me?"

"We'll see," he says. "Show me you can write proper characters."

A small collection of old recycled paper dries in the corner of the hut. I take one and smooth out the creases. My brush traces characters with water, _sumi-e_ , as a cost-efficient demonstration. I decide to take a risk. If he's so confident about his message's importance, such that he thinks a commoner could deliver it to the daimyo, then I'm going to test his mettle. How?

Hike my prices. Outrageously.

Words bloom under my brush:

 ** _For the service I shall render, this esteemed customer owes three hundred ryo, paid up front._**

It's a small fortune around more than these parts. But he doesn't even blink.

"Deal."

"Deal," I return, vaguely impressed. Another flash of metal emerges from his cloak, and my hands casually dodge under the table. But it's not a dagger this time. Nor is it my payment. Rather, it's a small rounded coin, with no discernible emblem on either side.

"If there's trouble, show the daimyo this."

 _That still requires me to meet the daimyo,_ I think. Nevertheless, I roll the coin in my palm. The smooth circle doesn't seem to hold any gimmicks.

"Your token?"

"Something like that."

My curiosity's piqued. "What makes you so sure I can even get it to the daimyo?"

"Try."

And he slides out several ingots of pure silver, to seal our transaction.

* * *

Ueno Castle is something straight out of a storybook. Its lofty, vaulted pagodas can be seen jutting into the blue skies for miles, stately and striking, even from a distance. The landmark is useful for navigation while I'm traveling out of town. Yet, for all the times I've passed by, I've never seen the castle up close.

After all, it's no place for plebes.

I jog past the barren shanty towns, and hit the nicer part of the village. Thatched huts make way for winding stretches of shingled white mortar, like a tufted serpentine dragon, almost daunting in beauty and grandeur. Looking up at the ever-taller castle, I can't help but question the wisdom of my client. The feudal system may be lax on regulations, but it's strict on caste rules. There's no incentive for anyone inside these compounds, nor in that castle, to grant me an audience.

Well, I suppose I'll worry first about opening the castle gates. Ueno castle lies beyond a murky blue moat featuring a lone arched bridge. On the other side, massive double doors look to weigh two tons each. Wedging my letter underneath the door is an option. But I can't, in good faith, just abandon the letter here, where it'll be intercepted, or simply lost in the black hole that is bureaucracy (a fact the Rokudaime lived and thrived by).

So I try knocking. Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

"I have an important letter!" I shout, preparing my knuckles for another futile round.

Four times.

Five.

"SCRAM, OR WE'LL SPEAR YOU!"

 _How delightful._

"There's bandits in town conspiring to kill our lord!" I shout. "Let me in and I'll describe 'em to you!"

Nothing.

Six times.

Drastic measures, now.

"I'm pregnant with your lord's love child!" My best despairing voice is peppered with inconsolable sobbing. I spice it up with a tortured wail or two. "Oh, woe is me! Kind passerby, you there! And you! Please hear my tale! Listen, everyon—"

The doors crack a sliver. A bulbous nose juts out, followed by beady, darting eyes.

" _Hurry up!_ I don't need people coming and gossiping!"

If the gatekeeper finds me embarrassing enough to let in, then my woeful soul shan't complain, alack. I duck through the door, while eyeing my usher. He's a stout man with a shrewish face, wrapped in warm layers in today's cool morning air. A simple envy for his wardrobe creeps up, but is immediately dispelled when I get my first glance at the castle gardens

I've discovered Wonderland.

Kaleidoscopes of color and texture dazzle from every angle. My eyes drink in the gardens as I follow the gatekeeper along a cobbled path toward the main castle. They say certain things in life are priceless, but even the sky looks brighter, bluer. Like the wealthy can afford a better patch of the heavens. Trees bud pink and pearly blossoms are framed by spring green tendrils and neat-clipped hedges. All this finery reflects in dappled blue ponds abundant with dancing red and orange koi. I nearly miss our stop in front of a small hut resembling a walled pavilion.

"Give me your letter." His nose droops miserably, while his hand executes a grabby motion.

"Right," I chuckle, then dig into my sash. "People use the bandit excuse a lot, huh."

"Like you wouldn't believe." He looks even more morose than before, clutching my letter. "But you're the first who's had the gall to declare pregnancy. All I wanted was to cultivate my flowers, but noooo, the last guy quit because of all this, and now _I_ have to gate duty, all because you hussies have to accost the young lord with your silly love letters. My noble job's been _utterly desecrated_ —"

"Love letters?" I interrupt, confused. "Lord Ueno is, um, _aged_ , isn't he?"

"His son!" the man spits at me. "Don't pretend you're not after the Young Lord, you hussy!"

Much of feudal nobility is shrouded in mystery, and I had no clue the Lord even had a son. I suppose it's safer that way. Between explaining that I'm here for Ueno _Senior_ , that I shouldn't be chased out again, and that I'm not 'a hussy', I spot a group of people weaving through the garden. Without notice, my gaze is redirected to the ground, body crimped at a ninety-degree angle beneath the gatekeeper's surprisingly strong wrist.

"My lords!"

I glance up. The gathered gaggle of lordlings and ladies feature powdered faces, rouged cheeks, and artful piles of glossy, oiled hair. Coming from my mud-colored district, I haven't seen this in some time. They, like the garden, are incredibly colorful, but in a different way—their vibrant hues are almost _modern_. The plainest one still sports a sumptuous, sky blue haori matching the tie in his hair.

"Who's that, Ikkyun?" one asks.

"No one of consequence!" is the wheedling reply. "Just a distant relative. Nothing to trouble you with, my lords!"

"You're holding something, Ikkyun," another remarks. "One of those love letters? Your relative's after the Young Lord too?"

"Not a love letter," I say, and straighten before my waist cracks. "It's for the daimyo. I'm a professional courier."

"A professional courier? This _commoner girl?"_ they shriek. "Ikkyun, your relative is so _chic!"_

"I can write in three languages, too," I bait, though I hardly know the waters I'm tossing this into. As the group explodes into twitters, I'm reminded of a flock of tropical birds in Kiri, after Mitsuki flung his snakes at them. "Chic!" they continue to cluck at each other. "We must hear more!" A positive sign.

Mystified, I turn to Ikkyun for guidance. And, I admit, to watch his amusing facial tics. He doesn't disappoint, turning a marvelous and improbable shade of purple. The gatekeeper goes above and beyond my expectations, though. When I am invited for tea by the young nobles—per my plan—the old man actually tears my letter in half.

Oh well.

I kept a copy.

* * *

Carefree teenagers, no matter the era, are masters at the art of chatter. The young aristocrats squeeze out any silence with musings on fine food, music, poetry, rumors, switching maddeningly from one topic to the next. I catch and lose their interest just as quickly. "So what's _really_ in that letter?" a lady with flowered sleeves asks, as if I didn't just tell her. "Perhaps an affair with a noble? You can tell me." No matter how I try to make myself interesting, my life suffers from a distinct lack of love trysts. So does my letter. Probably? My message was dictated in code. I'll get it to the daimyo and hope he deciphers what he needs.

"Not just anyone can get a message to Lord Ueno," says a lordling. "You have to be invited into his presence."

"Even if the message is important?"

At this, everyone pauses. I laugh weakly. I know what they're thinking. _Why'd someone pick you to deliver it, then?_

A gracious soul pipes in. "I suppose you could invite the daimyo to a _hanami_."

"What's that?"

Another sighs behind her sleeve. "Oh, little pauper. It's a party to view the cherry blossoms. If you host one chic enough, the daimyo himself comes. It's best done in the courtyard, with sake and musicians on reserve."

"Well, are any of you hosting the daimyo soon?" I ask stolidly. "Can I come?"

There's an eruption of awkward, high-pitched laughter. No one replies, though. I know I've pushed my bounds too far. After tea, the group abandons me in favor of another walk around the expansive gardens. I'm still appreciative, as my stomach is filled with tiny luxurious cakes. But this is the end of my Cinderella moment. Shortly, a servant will come pick me up, and I shall be elegantly booted out of upper society.

That is, if I stay put and wait for my pumpkin carriage to arrive.

Which I don't.

No one stops me in my first fifteen minutes wandering the compound. However, the second fifteen minutes make me realize the security infrastructure is _actually excellent_. Uniform tatami panels hide even the faintest lead. There are few chatty staff, or other clues as to the daimyo's quarters. Finally, I get my man, drifting up the hall in voluminous robes: the Young Lord's _go_ teacher. His attendant has no clue how much he's disclosing, discussing their lesson plan.

The ancient game of _go_ , beyond amusement purposes, is taught to nobles as way to hone skill in strategy, statesmanship, and war. I once played at a charity tournament (Boruto came too, mostly to wreck havoc). I discovered I'm pretty strategic. I put that skill to use now, by strategically kidnapping two hapless court officials and stuffing them in a water closet, under mild genjutsu.

My bunshin and I trace the steps to where the teaching game with the Young Lord will ensue. The _ma no yugen_ , room of mystery, is tailored for the game of go. It's easy to identify, as it bears all the traditional hallmarks that continued into my era. Some pebbles. Bigger rocks. A few sprigs of bamboo. And, to top it all off, a stuffy-looking nerd, sitting _seiza_ by the go board (Boruto's description, not mine).

Everything is there, except the stuffy-looking nerd.

The Young Lord is a mere child, maybe six years old, and he sits like a fidgety pretzel. _No wonder Ikkyun called me a hussy._ _It's a wonder he let me in at all._ Feeling sorry, I unleash all of my charity-go-skill to what is probably the most sub-par lesson the Ueno heir will ever get.

At the end of the game, we've talked quite a bit about everything but go. The Young Lord doesn't seem to mind. Neither do I, since I've extracted some things in conversation: First, that Lord Ueno Sr. is attending a hanami into the evening. Second, that the daimyo has at all times at least six castle guards with him. And third, the man loves sweets, but is a tyrant who does not let his son enjoy them because it's 'not manly'. (The relevance of this third fact is questionable.)

"Am I invited to that party too?" I ask coyly.

The Young Lord peers up at me, all chubby face and bobbing topknot. "But you're sick, right?"

"Sick?" I smile sweetly. _My go skill was that rusty, huh.  
_

"Well, your voice sounds funny," he says, full of concern.

I pat the boy on the head, and tell him his skill as a statesman has greatly improved.

* * *

The scent of food wafting from the central courtyard mixes with the heady smell of cherry blossoms. I think it's aged liqueur, but then I catch sight of the venue. Sakura trees are in full bloom, their crowns like fluffy plumage against the inky sky. Petals sprinkle down in pink showers that scatter across the yard. People dressed to the nines lounge all around the courtyard, clinking cup after cup. Some pluck musical instruments, and still others play cards. I use the guise of the _go_ teacher to get in, but then let the _henge_ disappear partway. I've been assured in the past that I 'look the part', with a bun updo and nicer robes.

It's immediately apparent where the daimyo is: the first-choice spot immediately under the largest tree in bloom. Lord Ueno is a thin bearded man, flanked by six masked samurai. Their decorative sword sheathes lacquered and gleaming in the glow of red lanterns, while the daimyo is hunched over the wide, flat table, embroiled in a game of some sort. Court officials circle around, cheering in a way that suggests the sake has been free-flowing all evening.

"May I tempt you with something sweet?" A server presents a platter of leaf-wrapped sakura mochi. "It's a fresh batch."

I accept, but don't eat it, as I approach the throng watching the daimyo's game. The man sitting opposite Lord Ueno shuffles three cups. He whirls the cups in dizzying figure-eight motions across the table, then reveals dice underneath. Gold and silver pieces pile onto the mahogany table, as chatter swells. Rinse. Repeat. Like a finely-conducted symphony of movement.

 _They're gambling_ , I realize.

I settle in to watch among the jovial crowd. Lord Ueno's eyes are quick, and his hands quicker. The most powerful man in the room is not shy as he lets out another peal of laughter, in triumph. His opponent cries with dramatic dismay.

"You're too good, my lord!"

"You're just slow, Yamada." Lord Ueno's voice is a mellow baritone, loosened by sake. "This is almost too easy." At this the crowd erupts into merry laugher.

A soft voice tickles my ear.

"We must seem pathetic."

I flinch and turn. The plain face and plain clothes from earlier are unchanged. The man in the sky blue haori winks at me, as he adds: "No one competes for real. Not against the daimyo."

"I can explain," I say quickly.

"Save it," he chuckles, arms loosely crossed and standing languidly among the crowd. "I won't tell that you crashed the party. The more the merrier, right?"

"Thanks," I reply uncertainly.

"Still trying to deliver your letter?"

I nod.

The nobleman hums. "Well, I doubt you'll be able to, here."

His usual frivolous demeanor is disarming. But doubt? That, I'm used to. "Just watch," I say, piqued. "Though I'll need you to vouch for my identity."

His eyes laugh less easily than his mouth, but they do light up now. "What do I get in return? Or shall we make it a bet?"

 _Another gambling addict._ _Explains why he's here._ "I won't lose," I say stiffly. He seems to enjoy the challenge in my voice.

"Everyone!" the noble's plain face belies his striking voice. It's a commander's voice, and I wonder if his family does military or politics. "My good friend here would like to try."

 _The guy works fast._ I don't have time to shoot him a sour look as I'm whisked into the seat. I tell myself to breathe. The atmosphere is as oppressive as the room of mystery for _go_. Where the former was austere and bred silence, this place is lavish color, laced with alcohol and raucous laughter. My knees fold, and I bow low.

"My Lord," I murmur.

"I don't recall your face." Lord Ueno's glinting eyes and flushed face taper into a trim, dark beard. His fingers drum the table. "No matter. What will you bet?"

"My bet shall be a surprise," My voice steadies. "Your reward will be worth your while."

"Oh?" The daimyo flashes a grin. "And if you manage to win?"

I hide my brazenness behind my sleeve, as if shy. "You'll be punished, of course, My Lord." With my other hand, I proffer the sakura mochi. "If you lose, you'll have to eat this."

Lord Ueno's answering grin is positively lupine. "My pride is on the line, then."

My hands sweep the three wooden cups, and the six-sided die. The daimyo may adore sweets, but his pride, or caution, won't let him lose easily. Still, just in case, I make sure to go slow at first. As I planned, Lord Ueno wins the first round, then the next two. The cheering intensifies.

"Dice are too big." I pretend to be upset. "How can I win like this?"

My simper works wonders. "Okay, then, we'll find a substitute," the daimyo laughs. "My retainers will fetch something smaller."

I smile. "No need."

I've been waiting for this, all day. "I have just the piece we can play with," I say. My kimono sleeve twirls with a flourish, as my fingertips brush the table while hidden under the large sleeve.

When I lift my arm, the client's coin token is on the table.

My eyes scan for reactions. Around the gambling table, everyone's laughing at my paltry parlor trick. But only two individuals' gazes grow somber.

The first is the daimyo's.

The second is the young man's, in sky blue. The one who'd volunteered me.

* * *

Lord Ueno's face flickers shades of orange and red in the candlelight. We're in a private chamber, after the party. There, he resembled a roaring lion, but now, he's a silent tiger, prowling, scanning the letter and me. He carefully refolds my envelope once he's done.

"All this for a letter?" he asks, scanning me.

My demeanor is a far cry from the giggling creature at the party. "I take my job seriously," I say. Despite my disclosure that I am merely a commoner, I don't add any honorifics. If I'm rude, then he's tolerant. Lord Ueno's brow furls, but he doesn't remark. Perhaps I've done him a great service, with this message.

"Your job is done, then."

He's right. I turn to leave, then pause at the door, fingers brushing the door frame.

 _What would one more favor be?_

"One more thing. That young man in sky blue, the one that stood next to me at the dice game."

"Yes, I know who Murata is."

"This Murata seems off, somehow," I continue. "He seemed to know something about the coin."

" _Lord_ Murata is one of my most trusted, Miss Courier."

Now Lord Ueno sounds tired, not alarmed, like I expected. "But are you sure he's safe?" I hedge. In a rare display, the daimyo scoffs. But he also now stares at me with an edge in his eyes.

"I trust him with my life."

 _And if something goes wrong?_ I don't say this aloud. If I investigate and uncover a rat, maybe then the one Lord Ueno trusts with his life will be me. _Information and connections._ The reasons I got into my business.

"Then may I examine him, My Lord?" Opportunity makes me bold, though perhaps I ask for too much. "Can I stay the week?"

"Stay the month, if you like," Lord Ueno replies, slowly. "But you can't stay for free. As one of common birth, you'll need to be hired. I don't have enough funds or reason to hire another maidservant right now. And even if you were a servant, I could hardly allow you to hang around nobles like Murata."

"I'll make it worth your while," I say. "What does this castle need right now?" _What do you need, to trust me?_

"I'll get back to you," Lord Ueno sidesteps. "For now, stay with the groundskeeper."

* * *

I hardly expect a 'welcome back' with open arms. Indeed, the first thing Ikkyun does is whap me upside the head for my rudeness to the feudal nobility. It hurts. But it's also such a grouchy, old relative-like gesture that I don't protest. The groundskeeper-turned-gatekeeper relegates me to the small kitchen space in his hut, where he's laid a serviceable straw pallet to sleep upon. So starts my first night among upper society. Though, I don't let Ikkyun sleep right away.

"What sort of job can I get where I can mingle with nobles?" I muse aloud. I shouldn't just wait around for the daimyo to boot me out. Don't employers like a bit of initiative, from future employees?

Ikkyun, who's ceased his fake snores, snorts: "Social climbing again," he says in disgust. "Why should I tell you?"

"Suppose I'm a great hire," I sing-song. "You'll get promoted for letting in such an excellent employee. Maybe you'll get to garden full time again."

There's a long pause.

"Just think. No more hussies bothering you."

As it turns out, Ikkyun's love for his garden _just barely_ surpasses his dislike of me.

I scuffle restlessly at dawn, eager to report to the castle's east corner. Ikkyun left before me, to arrange my meeting with the staff that hires castle guards. The eastern yard holds a building separate from the main castle. Guards—samurai, archers, masons, and the like—live there as Ueno castle's standing defense unit. Extended family live outside the castle, in those beautiful shingled buildings I passed on my way here.

As sunlight winks over the gated walls, I walk east, toward a crop of persimmon trees. They're marked with painted concentric circles, like targets.

"Well met, commoner." I turn. The approaching soldier is a tall man with an angular jaw and a brow line that would do Metal Lee's dad proud. He carries himself with a familiar haughtiness I've seen in other military families.

"Morning. My name's Kagami."

"Mine's Souta, but don't bother remembering it." He's subtle while still being blunt as a hammer. Souta makes a motion for me to follow. En route, he hands me a quiver of arrows and a bow. "Can you shoot?"

We spend the next half-hour taking turns aiming at the persimmon trees' targets, from various distances. I hit a near-bullseye from seventy-feet. At around two-hundred feet, my arrows start marking the outer edges of the trunk's target. This era's bows are not the reinforced carbon in mine.

"You _can_ shoot," he murmurs (I watch him expectantly). "But you're not the best I've seen."

Souta collects the arrows and, without a second glance, marches away in great big strides. The audition's over. _I can do better,_ I want to shout. But ever since the Senju-Uchiha battle, I've been loathe to use even normal Sharingan. I know so little about the politics inside these walls. Being identified as a ninja could be dangerous. Furthermore, without a clan, I'm a rogue—and rogues, especially young ones, are dangerous. How did Itama put it, again?

 _Unorthodox._

"Wait!" I call. "Isn't there anything else you need, besides archers?"

"When's the last time you looked in a mirror, Miss Mirror?" Souta's pun with my name is good-natured, but I sense the exasperation in his voice. "A soldier doesn't eat for free. We recruit in the winter, for the new year. I've no desire to start training a little girl from scratch, even if you can shoot a stationary target a few feet in front of you."

Sometimes, words fly straighter than arrows.

"Lord Ueno would be an idiot not to hire me."

Souta's eyebrows shoot up, especially at my casual tone. "Look, Ikkyun asked for this favor, and I took pity. But isn't this a bit much? Are you one of those desperate social climber types? 'Cause I hate those. The world's not easy, ya know?" And here he adjusts the quiver against his back. I see numerous, hardened nicks along his arm. The pattern of muscle belies his training. He's likely born and raised as a soldier—in the warrior caste. Not much different from the Uchiha.

Part of me wants to let Souta go. Leave him in his set worldview. But my hand grasps his arm, easily twisting the rest of his larger figure my way. His eyebrows leap up, then descend to his lashes. A muscle in his jaw jumps. Still, I can't flinch here.

"The world's not easy," I reply. "But I survive just fine."

* * *

"You'll be a goner before sundown," Ikkyun says cheerfully.

I laugh along, weakly. But the jovialness in his tone doesn't upset me, as I prune my branch. A few butterflies dance by. The weather today's excellent, but it's not the weather that's transformed Ikkyun's grumpy self. Rather, it's the thought of me gone (or a goner)—booted out the gate or offed in a sparring match. Either way I won't be taking up his kitchen for a third night.

The soldiers in the castle hold a seasonal sparring tournament. It's scheduled for today. The tournament boosts camaraderie, but also assesses the progress of recruits. There are sixty-four entrants, drawn from those living inside the castle walls. Some are seasoned warriors. Others are the newbies, thirsty to prove themselves. And then there's me—seasoned, _and_ thirsty to prove myself. I'll be competing as a special entrant.

Ikkyun's shears snip another twig. "So Lord Ueno agreed to this? You stay if you do well?"

"Some nobles convinced him that it'd be interesting. They said I'd really spice up the betting pool."

"If I have time, I'll come watch."

Ikkyun's face is radiant. He's day-dreaming about my doomful demise, probably. "It's an elimination tournament," I smile. "So come early. You know, in case I lose early."

For all of the old man's grumpiness, he's shared room and board with me. Also, the more of the gardens I see, the more I admire his dedication. Ikkyun's not the only one dedicated to his job. Around the castle, I've started to recognize familiar faces: messengers, cooks, even statesmen, attending meetings at unholy hours of the night while wandering the halls with paraffin burners. These faces show up at the tournament. Some, to _ooh_ and _aah_ at the soldiers. Others, to place bets.

The social circles of Ueno castle's warrior and noble caste are tight-knit. Nobles in fine, pastel raiment matching the balmy day begin to spread picnic blankets around the grounds where the tournament matches are held. Some audience members run up to participants, with tokens of luck, or whispers of encouragement.

I push through a crowd to the bulletin, tacked to a wooden signpost. A few tall, bulky ones scan me incredulously. Resolutely, I stare straight ahead. The tournament rules are simple. Everyone is allowed one weapon, a choice between sword or spear. The swords are wooden pikes, and the spear's tips are just waxed cloth.

Still, as the first rounds commence, the audience is vocal—gasping whenever someone gets hit. I make my way to Souta's weapons distribution station off to the side. I notice Lord Murata next to him, grinning cheekily.

"Ah," Murata's face lights up. "The social climber has arrived."

 _My new moniker?_ "Why're you here?" I hope I don't sound rude. Or suspicious.

Murata flaps a sky blue sleeve. "I didn't feel like sitting with the rest of the audience right now. Watching sweaty guys grappling is only fun in the final rounds." This is a non-answer if I ever heard one. But I don't have time to dally.

"Your weapon?" Souta asks. He looks a bit dazed, that I actually showed up.

"What's my opponent using?"

"Sword."

"Then, same."

Souta silently hands me a polished _bokuto._ Murata waves ("Bye! Perhaps for good, eh?"), as I walk toward the part of the lawn partitioned with rope. This outdoor makeshift ring is for fighters. On one side, soldiers watch wordlessly as they wait their turn. On the other, spectators cheer from their picnic blankets, sipping tea and _other_ _beverages_. A wizened old guard in the corner gives me the same look Souta first gave me a day ago. The referee's hand shoots into the air.

" _Begin!"_

My first opponent is one of those classic-looking soldier types—broad, lean, and holding the wooden sword like an extension of his arm. A few audience members swoon particularly loudly as he approaches. His footwork is impeccable. I exhale, and he's close, leaning his weight into his sword, the edge grazing my ear.

I hear the wind sing.

Then all I hear are cheers.

Not for the soldier. These are for me. Slowly, I straighten from one knee. My opponent is on the ground, a clean hit on his side. I never finished learning kenjutsu, but I can dance beyond the edge of my opponent's blade. Still, the demarcated ring means I can only dance so far.

The next opponents aren't so easy. I face a seasoned samurai: his grip weightless, his swing like a ten-ton bludgeon. My ribs get a taste, and all the air exits my lungs. I keep my knees loose as I disappear from his line of sight. From the ground, I grasp his ankles and _pull._ The audience is riveted. Even some hard-nosed soldiers gape as our figures blur into a windmill. But I let go a bit too soon (him writhing mid-air doesn't yield the most precise toss). He lands in the middle of some picnic-ing nobles, with sounds of elegant shrieks and breaking china.

I hope whatever juice they're drinking washes out.

My next opponent drops out. It's likely there's some sort of reputation factor, or politics, behind the scenes. But in any case, I hadn't plan to go past the quarter-finals, to not attract too much attention. The audience has grown exponentially in the span of the afternoon. Castle staff have a lull in their chores. Ikkyun's hooked nose and beady eyes are there, his face wrestling with the appropriate dour emotion given my victories. I give him a cheerful wave. I also look for the daimyo, but Lord Ueno's nowhere to be seen. I do, however, spot the _go_ teacher, looking remarkably peaky post-identity theft.

My crowd-spotting tunes out my new opponent entering the ring. A humming buzz starts. Even the soldiers on the sidelines become unusually chatty. I turn. _A superstar, among their ranks?_ _A dark horse? An old, wizened commander?_

None of the above.

He's changed out of his sky blue robes, but Lord Murata sports a familiar smile. A wooden sword hangs languidly at his side. The approach is so fluid, so casual, I think he's shaking my hand. Still, I dig in my heels, and raise my weapon half-mast.

The first blow nearly bounces my sword out of my numb fingers. I clench my teeth, lean into the parry, and _push._ Miraculously, _monstrously_ , Murata doesn't budge. The grass underneath his feet sinks like potholes, but he doesn't.

He leans in, and I falter.

"Ever wonder why the daimyo let you stay?" Murata grins. Gleaming teeth reflect in our crossed blades. "You asked to examine me, but I'd already asked Lord Ueno _to let me_ _examine you_."

It may just be the element of a surprise attack.

But that round, I experience the limit of my kenjutsu.

* * *

The upside is that Ikkyun didn't look _entirely_ happy at my defeat (he even offered to put salve on my bump afterward). Well, that, and I got to stay at the castle. Souta offered me a spot as a private guard. Some spectating nobles (including the ones who had to clean plum wine off of their clothes and picnic blankets) pooled their money to sponsor me. A commoner girl who can use a sword is _very chic_ , they say. And so, I relocated from Ikkyun's kitchen into the soldier's quarters, where I share a room with the other females (all archers).

I may have not been a goner that sundown, per Ikkyun's prediction, but as the days wear on, my suspicions increase.

Murata is more powerful than he lets on. He may be a spy. Or a mole. Or both. More importantly, Murata's examination of me—weird code for _kill me_ , perhaps—proceeds strangely. He's requested me as a bodyguard, for travel. But the only destinations he seems interested in traveling to are gambling dens. This is how I acquaint myself with the finest of the Sengoku Jidai's _underground_ culture.

After dice is cards.

After cards is a game with shuffling tiles resembling mahjong.

In between calling bluffs and slapping aces, I mingle with nobles. By now, the other young lords and ladies recognize me. "Miss Mirror," they call me, after my courier pseudonym, Kagami. Another reason for the nickname is how unwilling I am to talk about myself. They're right: I am more interested in asking questions than answering them. I can't dodge all questions sent my way, though.

"How do you like court life?" Murata asks me one night.

We're strolling back to our respective lodgings, post-card games. I position myself so that my back never faces him, but it's easy to slip. It's one of those nights when the air smells fragrant and the night is starry and mild. I even let him walk me the long way, through the gardens. I tell myself this is an excuse to extract information, and also to tease Ikkyun, who's likely spying from his hut, making tsk tsk noises. There's one more reason I'm not returning to my soldiers' quarters, though.

"The castle's fine." I keep my eyes on some tulips. "But I don't think I could live here long-term."

"Most nobles don't live here year-round," Murata hums. "They have their own land they need to take care of, sometimes their own jobs. Specializations, which are useful to the daimyo. It's a symbiotic, win-win relationship."

"What about you? What do you do for a living?"

"Miss Kagami strikes again," he laughs. "Always turning a question against others."

I can't refute it. There's a lot I could spill about myself, but shouldn't. One such fact is the reason I can't sleep tonight, waiting for the time to tick to midnight: the last day of the third month.

I turn sixteen today.

Mama had been so excited to celebrate, she'd bought a new mission outfit for me months ahead of time. It would signal that I've grown up. That she and Papa are proud of me. That my missions henceforth are a testament to my village, my clan, my family, and the woman I've become. I never got to wear it.

"Damn hydrangeas."

"Hydrangeas?"

"Pollen," I whisper, scrubbing wetness from my eyes.

"I've won the lottery tonight, it seems," Murata smiles, more softly. Not for the first time, I wonder if he's truly hiding something sinister, underneath.

"You didn't win a single ryo tonight," I grumble. "You should curb your addiction. Even if you're loaded, you shouldn't squander money."

"Preach," he chuckles.

"Seriously, what does your family do? Samurai? Is that why you handle the sword so well?"

He backtracks, hand clasped to his chest, and eyes actually _twinkling_. "Not one, but _two_ new facts about Miss Mirror! You have pollen allergies. You're frugal. I'm getting rich tonight, indeed."

"Still hardly the lottery."

"Give me something to work with, then."

"Three questions, if I get three on you," I say. I can always renege, if his questions get too difficult.

"Okay," Murata fingers his chin. "Where do you live?"

"In the surrounding village," I offer, without specifics. You know, paranoia. Who knows what hitmen he can hire?

"And what do you think of the village?"

Murata asking my opinion provides little utility. It's mystifying, like him. "Big, and busy." I pause. "And nothing like _this_."

"This?" He's puzzled.

"Is that your third question?"

"Don't be stingy."

I laugh, then fling my arms wide, to the beautiful garden nightscape. " _This._ Comfort. Luxury. Parties are so far beyond those I live with. Even—" I pause, and swallow. "Even _safety_ is beyond those I live with."

"Explain," Murata says. "And that's my third question."

We come to a small pond. The koi are sleeping, their shapes still and lit like iridescent jewels by a bright moon. I make out two dappled reflections—one, actually a noble. Another, a fake. But when it comes to attitude toward the daimyo, I'm still wondering. Maybe Murata's the fake one there.

"Beyond food and shelter, there are many who resort to violence," I tell him. "The daimyo isn't interested in keeping the peace for the commoners. They've nothing to offer him in exchange. Not even sakura mochi in a gambling game."

"I'm sure you can change that, a resourceful person like you."

The statement nearly makes me laugh. A few months ago, I would have believed such. Now, I'm increasingly unsure. "I wonder if it's too much to do by myself," I say. "Maybe I need help."

"Is that why you're here?"

My finger jabs up toward Murata's nose. "Hah! That's the fourth question! I reserve my right to not answer. Now I get _my_ three questions."

Murata sputters. "Unfair."

I'm not beyond lecturing a noble. "Life's unfair, rich boy. You got here because of your blood, not merit." The strong scent of flowers tonight has gotten to me too. My tongue is loose. "But it's not your fault. All we can do is walk forward." I kneel to the pond's still surface, where I see Murata's keen expression.

"Do you mean that?" His reflection's mouth moves in time to the words.

"Fifth question."

"Okay," he holds up his hands in defeat. "Ask yours, then."

I hug my knees and stare into the water. _How do I ask him about his reaction to the coin?_ It doesn't help, if he knows why I'm suspicious of him.

"I have one," I sigh. "An extra hard question."

"Shoot."

"Tell me, how would you convince the daimyo to make changes?" I leave it ambiguous, to build up to various things. First, I can use this to convince the daimyo about Murata. Second, I can learn some of Murata's own techniques to earn trust. Then, I'm really going places with my connections.

An age seems to pass.

"If it's too hard, you can just tell me what your family does," I sigh.

One of the koi fish stirs and drifts lazily close to my hand. I'm about to just give up, when I feel Murata come squat beside me, his plain but still quite nice robes mussed by the pond mud. Instinctively, my eyes go to the water's reflection again—to make sure he doesn't make any sudden movements.

When I see the reflection, the man known as Lord Murata is gone. (He was a fake, after all.) In his place, there's dark hair, dark eyes. My eyes, rippling slightly as mirrored in the water, are wide.

The face in the water smiles apologetically.

"You already know what my family does, Miss Mirror."

* * *

Partly to hide him, partly in retaliation, I tug a sky blue sleeve over Murata, no, Hashirama's, face. I still internalize Hashirama as famous and recognizable. I'm probably too cautious. Still, Ikkyun's hut is close by, and one can't be too careful.

"Don't worry," Hashirama says, quite cheerful for a man near-suffocated with his own sleeve. "I have my sensors on, this time."

"Does the daimyo know who you really are?"

"Yup."

"And how do you know about the coin?" I ask. "Your face changed when you saw it at the party."

"They're the daimyo's personal spy tokens. He needs people on the outside, reporting back in. Castles are full of double agents for other families."

"Are you a spy for Lord Ueno?"

Hashirama cocks his head, like he's amused at my blunt question. "Sort of. The Senju have long served powerful figures in the Fire territory."

"He trusts you." _With his life,_ I don't add.

"I ask for a heavy price for my services," Hashirama answers. "It's hard to think you're being swindled by one who openly asks for an unreasonable price."

Ah. The daimyo and his spy—my client—somehow hold similar beliefs. I realize I may not have been paid at all, if I hadn't overcharged so blatantly. Suddenly, I'm curious.

"What _is_ your price?"

Hashirama's answering smile lights up the night.

"A new village."

I don't get the chance to soak in the revelations.

Another comes hurtling through the night.

Ikkyun footsteps are astonishingly soft, and swift. The old man hauls Hashirama—who still looks like his Senju self—by the shoulder. My first thought is that Hashirama's been discovered, and I jump up. But then Ikkyun speaks, directed to Hashirama.

" _They know!"_

Then the Senju heir's on his feet too, running alongside Ikkyun, and I'm scrambling over my longer robes to catch up. "Who knows? What do they know?" I pursue their blind run toward the castle.

"Prepare the allies for battle, Saru. I'll send word to Tobi."

"What's going on?" I repeat, angry. "Hey!" I reach out a hand, and finally Hashirama looks back at me.

"Our enemies have found out about the fake daimyo."

I nearly trip.

"The real Lord Ueno's been dead for a month," Hashirama finishes, face grim.

Now Ikkyun turns back to me as well, a new gravitas in his beady eyes. Maybe it's the dark clouds that have crept into the edges of the starry sky. Or the way his gaze sweeps over my hand on Hashirama's arm. A gnarled hand grips my wrist, and I glimpse the sheer strength the old man possesses, like when he forced me to bow in front of the lords and ladies.

"Still don't get it, silly girl? Our lands will soon be under siege."

.

.

.

 _tbc_

.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu: Next time, Sarada reenters the ninja world, or rather, it comes back for her. With a vengeance.  
_


	6. lacquer 2

.

.

.

I once saw a gruesome scene off the coast of Fire Country—sharks, circling a dying humpback whale. The scent had carried for miles and miles. Sharks smelled blood in the water. We're the whale, bloated and bleeding into the water. The daimyo of this castle is dead. Old allies would rather support foreign warlords than a six-year old child heir.

Rumors spread of invading armies. Battle sweeps everyone's lips: _war, on the northern frontier_. New mercenary names get attached to the rumors after each day, like a long, furling list of threats. Several names are famous. Sometimes, I recognize one from my era. Always, I strain for whispers of the Uchiha.

Hashirama's job is to scrape together an army strong enough to fortify the castle. A long, defensive war promises to drag along the entire village. Envoys conscript from the shanty towns, the farm fields—like eddies feeding twigs into a vast current, hoping against hope that a dam will be built. Ordinary farmers turn their hoes from battle against the rice paddies to ones against human invaders.

The evening bell tolls.

Outside, sheets of rain beat down against the narrow porch deck. Inside, scarlet drops splatter across a smooth ochre canvas. I've slipped into the scrivener's somber chamber to watch the court calligrapher dip his brush into red ink. The brushwork paints a warrior's soul—laid bare, stripped to the final question:

.

 _ **Will you be our ally?**_

 _ **Or shall we kill one another?**_

 _._

A call to arms is different in this era. Without email, messengers deliver requests on foot, while enemies dispatch mercenaries to kill those messengers. Papa and Mama knew vestiges of this traditional system. Even so, their experiences paled in comparison to their parents' wars. Now, several generations removed, _I'm_ the messenger on foot.

My instructions had been deceptively simple.

 _Deliver letters to the neighboring feudal fiefdoms to ask them to become our allies._

Easier said than done. Remember? Sharks in the water. The letters I'll be carrying this time may just end me. And if not, war might. Once again, I weigh my reasons to fight.

My bed is in this village. The shanty towns, my neighbors, will be the first under fire.

I silently slip out the calligrapher's chamber, feet padding the cool floorboards. Servants lurk in shadowy corners. No one stops me as I pass the most private parts of Ueno Castle. To castle retainers, I am the private bodyguard of Lord Murata—secretly Senju Hashirama—taken along on all of his gambling jaunts inside or outside the castle.

In a way, this is his biggest gamble.

The door to the private meeting room is designed for the safety of those inside. The series of shoji doors slide open with loud clicks. Three men are engaged in heated banter, and don't even notice. The room's other occupants maintain their rigid circle, wearing austere robes and even more austere expressions—except the youngest, whose mouth quirks at the ends, upon my arrival.

"The Aida won't accept an offer of alliance," says senior diplomat Wakana. "We might be neighbors, but they're also our enemies. They have wanted our eastern rice fields for years."

"They know those lands are ours!" shouts Chiaki, commander of the garrison and Souta's father.

"Yet they persist in shooting our farmers," mutters Wakana.

"We hold the legal rights to those rice paddies. The titles stretch back to our ancestors," reasons Honinbo, the chief accountant. "It's _tradition."_

"Tradition matters little here."

Twenty sets of eyes shift to the youngest speaker. Hashirama spins a coin on his finger, chin in his other hand. He would look almost blase, if not for his somber eyes.

"We have no choice. If we don't try to ally with the old clans of Fire territory, our chance of surviving an invasion from the north dwindles further. We must offer the Aida something of value. Something concrete, so that they fight with us rather than against us. If it's rice fields, then so be it."

I move to stand behind Hashirama. Now everyone's gazes glide to me—sizing me up in my gray servant's uniform. Every man here has armored bodyguards on standby, with burly hands and burlier arms that look capable of snapping mine like toothpicks. Small tournament victories don't matter to elite bodyguards. But they do recognize me for one thing—my employer. Hashirama may be the youngest, but he is one of the most respected speakers at the circle. And the Senju clan may not be nobility with territorial holdings, but its political power is its mercenary might.

In a way, war is the great equalizer. In this era, men who live and die by war _thrive_. Samurai, pugilists, even ninja can fund a village, as Hashirama plans to do.

As I plan to do.

The meeting ends with muted feelings of frustration. Nothing gets decided, except that the letters requesting alliance will be delivered. Their success will be up to fate. I sidle up to the exit, waiting for Hashirama, who quickly dons his Murata-guise. The Senju is normally striking. Murata's nondescript features help hide the leader I've seen him to be. But under Hashirama's own amiable smile, I wonder how many more layers exist.

"I've been dispa—" I start.

"Let's walk back first."

Hashirama's private quarters are as nondescript as his alias. The one interesting feature is the messiness. Bedding and clothing are strewn about the otherwise lovely suite. It's a spacious room with soft light filtering through shoji screens. I can no longer hear the rain outside. As soon as we're inside, Hashirama plops himself down on a floor cushion—the linty thing has seen better days as a bed pillow.

"I nearly _suffocated_ in there!" he sighs, melodramatic.

"But you didn't."

He looks up in that calculated, piteous way. "When are you leaving me? I may not survive those meetings by myself."

Funny. He's survived them just fine before I arrived.

"Soon," I say stiffly. "When the letters are done."

My mind drifts back to the meeting. None of those high-ranking officials seem able to muster enough positive emotion to smile at anyone, but they seem to like Hashirama. Enough to honor the late daimyo's promise to grant Hashirama a village. But I wonder if any of their feelings come close to the current fake daimyo, who'd trust Hashirama with his life.

"Where's Lord Ueno?" I ask.

"We've tightened security," explains Hashirama. "In case someone comes to kidnap him. You'd know."

I would.

Lord Ueno's replacement is a peasant bearing a striking resemblance to the late feudal lord. _Kurohai,_ he was once called—Black Ash. He was a conman disguising himself as a furnace sweep to enter houses and steal valuables. He'd been discovered by soldiers in the neighborhood. The physical resemblance to the real Lord was striking, and he'd been retained as a body double. Last month, his con services were finally needed. Briefly, I wonder what the future holds for Kurohai, now that the truth is out. In a way, I empathize.

Because I'm also a court lie now.

Of course, my identity is humbler: I'm Murata's personal guard, reassigned to his quarters to guard him day and night. To others, we are employer and employed. To gossip, we are a budding forbidden relationship between social classes. In truth, we are not friends. Barely allies. I can tell the Shodaime has not stopped "examining" me, as he'd said that day clashing swords. Test and be tested. In our moments alone, I'm as rigid as the decorative bamboo in the corner.

Seeing that I don't sit, Hashirama rises to his feet. His hand disappears into his robes to pull out a copper five-sided die. Before I can flinch away, his fingers overlay mine, curling my palm around metal.

"Delivering the requests for alliance is an important mission, Sarada. But it could be dangerous."

"I figured. Our neighborly relations aren't very good."

"That's..." The wan curve of his mouth doesn't make it up to his eyes. "An understatement."

"Haven't you heard?" I offer an exaggerated shrug. "I'm very _chic_ with a sword."

The corners of Hashirama's mouth tug again. "I know you don't need it, but I'm still sorry I can't join you. Neither can I send Tobirama with you." At my answering expression, he laughs haltingly. "Ah, well, maybe Tobi wouldn't have been a good choice. Anyhow, he's busy fortifying the northern border with my father. Out of all the options, I can only give you this."

I hold up the copper die he'd deposited in my palm. "Your clan token?"

"No, it's my _personal_ token," he says. "Five-sided, for each of my family. My mother gave it to me before she died."

 _But why give this to me? What does holding on to it do?_

I examine the sides of the die. One's been painted black. "Kawarama?"

"So Itama told you."

My tongue feels fat and clumsy. "The Senju... have a lot of enemies."

"Then I should be grateful that we have an ally in you."

It's odd.

At this moment, Hashirama looks very unlike the god of shinobi, and very like an ordinary man. I watch his crooked smile finally creep up to his crinkling eyes. I try to look elsewhere—anywhere—in the room. Mysteriously, Uchiha voices ring in my ears. My eyes close and I see Izuna's scoff. Madara's silent stare.

"But I'm an Uchiha."

"I know you can't let go completely, Sarada. I won't ask you to."

I can't let go of a lot of things. But there's little use in dwelling on the past. I open my eyes again. _Senju Hashirama will herald in the future of shinobi._ I need him to change the end of history. Among other things.

 _A new village._ Hashirama's not the only one who wants one.

I pocket the copper die.

When I go to sleep that night, the black behind my eyelids burn softly.

But as I finally drift off, it's another familiar face I dream.

* * *

 _We had signed for peace._

 _But when the last 'i' was dotted, last 't' crossed, the treaty fell like a dead thing. So we signed our names in blood, instead. Casualties were ticks in an endless row across the roadside. I had set off the first blaze, and watched the flame lick up the line like a torch to human dominoes, all long fallen. That night, we fortified our camp against the still flickering shadows._

 _I had wanted Naruto-sama's benevolence. My mother's legacy as healer. My father's forbearance for his past._

" _I'm not a killer," I whispered in the cold air.  
_

 _Warm hands wrapped my icy fingers._

 _"Let me_ _support you."_

 _Camped under the stars that night, I closed my eyes and waited for judgment to descend._

 _But I swore I would protect Boruto, against anything._

* * *

"Sarada!"

My fingers claw for the heavens. They collide with long, thick hanks of hair instead. The unfamiliar length and texture force my eyes open. _Left, right, up, down_ —I scan a familiar but unfamiliar room.

Flickering candlelight renders Hashirama's expression restless. The glow illuminates his features as his hands brush my cold shoulders.

"You were having a nightmare. Shouting a name—" he explains.

More than just my throat feels raw. I cocoon the sheets around me. Hashirama pauses, like he's encountered a wild animal he once thought tame, but forges on.

"—Boruto."

I shut the connecting door between our bedrooms every night. I wish I could shut my ears now.

"Your family?"

I shrink.

"No."

Light and shadow mix the palette of Hashirama's face. He's conflicted. Finally, his expression settles into a poker face. One far superior to those I've seen on any of his gambling ventures.

"S-Sorry." His hands fall away. "Itama told me you treated friends like family. When we first met, you asked me for peace. I doubted you."

My chest palpitations return.

"I don't doubt you any longer," he finishes.

 _This is what I wanted, isn't it?_ To become allies with Senju Hashirama. _True allies._ To have him trust me. This is good. Right? I'll get what I want. _Peace. Vengeance._ Which, I can't discern. Perhaps they are like the two sides of a coin. Or two sides of a multi-sided die whose other facets I have yet to even imagine.

"My offer still stands. Come to the Senju," Hashirama says slowly. "Only now, I want something else from you too. I fear it may be too much."

 _Then don't_ _ask_. Somehow, the past feels like déjà vu.

"Will you build a village with me, Sarada?"

My toes curl. I cradle my head in my hands, dizzy. My dream floats in the back of my eyelids and I wonder if I'm ready for this.

There's a knock at the screen door.

The screen slides open to reveal familiar beady eyes. They're trained on me, then on Hashirama's deer-in-headlights look. If any court ladies caught this scene, they'd be ecstatically screaming scandal. But this is Ikkyun. He simply scowls, marches forward, and tows me up by my wrist.

"The letters are done," he grumbles. "Get ready."

* * *

I should be stuck in a barley field to ward away crows.

When Souta's done, I'm a dead ringer for a fat scarecrow, wrapped in quilts stuffed with reams of straw and topped with a jaunty woven hat. The garrison guard was equally generous with fighting equipment, since the orders came from his father. Hell, Souta was ready to dump half the garrison's weapon coffers into my bag. But I told him it seemed counterproductive to request alliances while carrying a giant man-sized halberd. On the other hand, I am grateful for waterproof clothes.

Rain paints the world gray. Never have I experienced April showers to this extent. Sheets of water mask the green woods until I can't tell what's horizon and what's just more mud. Each squelching step makes me worry for my baggage. After all, what's the use of delivering _unreadable_ letters?

I go through the two recipients again:

First, the Aida clan: a neighboring fiefdom to the east, bordering the sea. Lord Aida Fujitaka is aging, and rumored to be growing senile. But he's not forgotten the historic feuds over the eastern rice plantations along the border. He's got an infamous military base of mounted samurai cavalry—a great prize, should they be our ally. A great danger, should it be turned against us.

Second, the Sarutobi clan: the clan of the future Sandaime. They're not a noble lineage, and thus not technically daimyo. However, they own territory and are considered an independent political force—and one to be feared, given their mastery of eclectic ninjutsu.

The flooded roads carry a blessing: there aren't many travelers about. However, my pace slows when I hit the eastern rice paddies.

These fields may be desired by Lord Aida, but I see little to like. Everything smells (and tastes) of bog. The pack teetering above my head could have kept water from my eyes—theoretically, that is, if bog water wasn't also assaulting me from below. When my face isn't being treated to a fresh mud mask every five seconds, I spot fish beneath the churning surface. My instincts have adapted to a dark ages hunter-gatherer lifestyle. If Papa and Mama could've seen me now…

The gray day fades to night like an exhausted old lightbulb. But I'm still wading through the flooded paddies, waist submerged, ankles trawling mud. By now, I've been half-swimming for enough time to have sprouted gills. Something large writhes through the thrushes at the edge of the paddy. My stomach squeezes like a hollow drum. I maneuver my pack down, thoughts focused on spearing my dinner.

"Here, fish," I sing, a bit loopy from exhaustion and hunger. "Let me catch you."

The movement in the murky water nears the surface. Something breaks with a splash.

Then that something _catches me._

We struggle in the dark—muddy splashes, flailing limbs. I claw onto the trunk, wide and slippery, before it twists and slides away. I activate my Sharingan just as I topple into the water.

Then a blunt force swings against the back of my neck.

* * *

I wake up tied to a chair.

Again.

 _Someone really should invent a rope-slicing device_. Why hadn't even Ninja Tech Corp. from my era developed something? They needed to put their time and resources to better use. Glowing chakra sabers, but not this?

I resign myself to normal abductee procedure. The room I'm in can't be more different than the Uchiha tent. Whirling, clacking gadgets engraved with pearly moons and stars cover every surface. Soft, gauzy curtains are draped like décor along paneled walls. I see four people standing in a semi-circle, all dressed oddly, in shimmery material mashed together with fish netting. It's like that eclectic, artsy (and somewhat hideous) stuff you only find at curio shops.

"She's awake," says a man with a beard resembling a wisp of chimney smoke. "Behead her now, Kame. We'll deliver the head to the Ueno court. That'll show 'em what Lord Aida thinks about a crummy alliance."

Kame is a portly woman with matronly, crossed arms. "My furniture will be splattered," she frowns. "We'll cut a vein and let her bleed out. I'll need to lay out towels first, of course. I have a spare pail here somewhere..."

A blond man with blue eyes the color of winter frost approaches me.

"Which would you prefer?" he asks curiously.

 _Dying, with head attached or unattached?_ Can't say I relish my options.

My mouth opens, but before I can get a word out - "Let's hurry it up," frowns the final figure, similar enough to the previous speaker to be his twin. "Before Naki goes and gets all attached."

"I'm not _attached_ , Kouki. Just curious," defends Naki. "What are those things on her face?"

"Glasses," I reply gamely, to show that I am more than helpful and amiable enough to keep alive. "Also called spectacles. They help me see by providing ocular correction."

"O-cooler correction," the old man pets his beard sagely. "Yes, I've heard of it."

Kame snorts. "Konbu, you were supposed to dispatch Ueno messengers quickly."

"You talk like _you're_ the one who caught her!"

Meanwhile, Naki has transferred my glasses to his own face. He winces as the frame settles on his nose—"Owww"—then passes them off to his brother Kouki, as he proceeds to flap a hand in front of my face.

"Still see me?" he waves. "Is your o-cooler okay?"

 _So this is what circus animals feel like._

Kouki also tries on my glasses, and reacts much like Naki, only more stoically. He blinks in rapid succession, then scientifically pronounces: "I don't think these are supposed to help anyone see better. She's lying. Let's kill her."

"Don't kill me," I say. "That's what Ueno wants."

A lie.

And not a very good one, I'll admit. But it's the first one that came to mind. And it's one I'll rationalize as if my life depends on it. Which it does.

Meanwhile, Naki's turned to riffling through my waterlogged bag. He seizes a scroll. It unfurls like a wet carpet, leaving the floor a puddly mess.

"It is an alliance offer," he pronounces. "Only... soggier."

"You _are_ the official Ueno messenger, right?" Kame asks. "Why shouldn't we kill you?"

"Say you _do_ kill me. My death gives the Ueno army a legitimate justification to attack you first," I rationalize glibly. "After you kill me, the Ueno will preemptively invade your territory. Kill me, and the whole army invades within the hour. That's what Ueno's planned."

"Egad." Konbu clutches his beard. "She dresses like a beggar, but speaks like a politician."

Kouki assesses me clinically, down to the last wet, stringy hair. He doesn't need to say the conclusion out loud. _You wouldn't fare much better, if you'd been deep-conditioned with mud for several hours._ But I hold in my retort.

"I'm no politician. Just a commoner," I say. "Lord Ueno's retainers took an interest in me, only so I could die for their cause. I've not been in court for more than two weeks. To them, I'm disposable." Few but Himawari have truly mastered the art of looking pitiful. Still, my appearance must be truly appalling, because Naki's chin wobbles and his eyes get large and puddly.

"Ah, the life of commoners. I've always found it _so tragic_. So bereft of human warmth. So—" Naki squawks as Kouki elbows him.

"Why are you telling us this, girl?"

"To incentivize an alliance," I say blandly.

"How's that?"

"It's a win-win for our side. But you have one good and one bad choice."

"That Ueno," Kame shakes her head slowly. "To think! He actually got sneakier _after_ he died."

Surprised, I scan her face. The delivered alliance letter was meant to (very subtly, at the last paragraph) imply Lord Ueno's death. The Ueno council had pored over intelligence reporting that it was the northern and western daimyo who knew. How did it spread to the eastern territories so quickly?

Kame gives me another quizzical look. "You think Lord Aida would want to meet her?"

"Eh," says Konbu.

"Nah," says Kouki.

"Um," says Naki. "... I did find another scroll for the Sarutobi Clan."

Kame sighs and excuses herself from the room. After a few minutes of excruciatingly awkward silence, my captors look visibly relieved as Kame returns towing a man with impressive sideburns. The room scrambles to greet the man. I wonder if it's the daimyo, Lord Aida Fujitaka. He doesn't look old enough.

"Sarutobi-sensei," bow Naki and Kouki.

"Lord Soujiro, well met," says Konbu.

Sarutobi Soujiro, huh.

I scan the dark scruffy hair, a large nose, and mysteriously resembles his namesake. He resembles something—or someone—else too. It's not the Sandaime's mug on the mountain, nor Konohamaru-sensei in the remotest. It's something more recent…

"Ah, Ikkyun!" I shout.

The man's eyes widen. Quickly, he commands the others out the room. Wordless, obedient shuffling ensues, though Naki returns my glasses and waves despondently at me before he exits. Then, to the tinkering sounds of exotic instruments around the small room, Sarutobi Soujiro and I face off in a staring match.

He gains the upper hand, by staring down his craggy nose at me. "Who are you?"

I regale him with the same old tale. Though when I'm done, he looks angry.

"No common orphan strategizes like you do," he broods. "You speak with knowledge of political affairs. I doubt two weeks in Ueno's court taught you this."

"I'm a quick learner. Worked my way up from cutting hedges with the groundskeeper." I wait for a reaction. "You know Ikkyun, yes?"

Sarutobi Soujiro twitches but doesn't answer. Instead, he becomes the third of the day to take my glasses and try them on. After blinking, he frowns severely at them as if they've done him a personal wrong, and gingerly replaces them on my face. Then, he pats my pockets down, looking for more likely hidden weapons. "Check the left pocket," I say helpfully.

After round two of our staring match, Soujiro fishes out the five-sided die from Hashirama. It gleams burnished copper in the paraffin lights. At this, he looks very, very conflicted.

"You know Hashirama?" I say innocently.

He snaps out of his internal angst with a sizzling stare. _"Do not_ speak his name openly."

I settle back to being an obedient hostage, playing guessing games as to how Soujiro and Ikkyun are related. Family, maybe? Didn't I hear Hashirama call Ikkyun 'Saru' once, in the garden?

"This changes things," Sarutobi Soujiro finally mutters.

 _Change is good._ My standards aren't even high. Just something other than death. I wait for the verdict. "I don't know who you are, girl." He rolls the copper die thoughtfully between his palms. "But if Hashirama trusts you, I won't kill you. For now."

A marked improvement. But I don't feel _completely_ absolved. I try one of Hashirama's calculated piteous looks. "For now, you say?"

Another returning _glower._ "This does not mean I share Hashirama's trust," Soujiro mutters. "The Sarutobi clan does not want to fight the Ueno, but the Aida are stubborn. I will see what I can do to convince Lord Aida."

"Anything I can do to make that decision easier?" I ask.

I think the man's smile gets a little more sinister.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

* * *

If I had heard we were going to the beach in any other weather, I would have cheered. As it is, it's not glorious seaside breezes that meet us. We trudge along the sand, buffeted by gray drizzle. Now and then, the wind blows salty froth at us. Soujiro bristles and shakes it off like some mountain ape, while I shiver and think mutinous thoughts. These mostly center around my confiscated coat and hat. Maybe invading these guys shouldn't be just a bluff.

"Why are we here?" I shout above the gale.

"You're a ninja, aren't you?"

"No way!"

"Either fess up or learn to lie." Soujiro points from up the shoreline. "I can tell from the way you walk on wet sand. There's chakra cushioning your steps. Look! The footprints."

There's uniform concavities marking Soujiro and my steps along the beach. Compared to an ordinary person's, these are shallow grooves, easily washed away by the tide. Old habits die hard. Another gusty spray slaps my face as I trudge over.

"But why bring me here?" _Seems a lot of effort just to examine footprints._

My question's returned with another question. Or rather, a flurry. "Why do you want an alliance?" Soujiro asks, eyes narrowed. "Who hired you? How much are they offering? Don't you know ninja flourish during times of war?"

"We could flourish in peace, too," I snap. "Can we leave now?" _Catching a cold won't make me flourish, ninja or not._

"Hn. You're too impatient to be any _decent_ ninja... Ah, here we are." Soujiro dips, his hand burrowing into the wet sand. He retrieves a smooth flat shell.

"A clam?" I sniff.

"A _bribe_ ," he corrects.

I blink at it, struggling to hold in a sneeze. _We came all this way for shellfish._

Then Sarutobi Soujiro asks:

"How fast can you shuck?"

* * *

Not very fast, it turns out.

But I'm a natural at clam digging. When my slave driver's not looking, my Sharingan hones in on little bubbles on the beach's surface, indicating activity underneath. As I roam around the beach, shivering, inquisitive peasants begin to line up along the shore. With their ragtag clothes and hollow features, they remind me of my neighbors back at the Ueno shanty towns. I look at the pile of clams I've (messily) shucked, and a _quid pro quo_ solution forms.

"Stop that," Soujiro scowls, when he sees me give them clam meat in exchange for help prying shells.

"Stop what?" I ask innocently.

"Lord Aida prohibits peasants from extracting resources from his private beaches. Even I had to be licensed."

"Well, you can't eat all this. We'll finish faster with help."

Soujiro gives me a pained look. "If you're going to break feudal law, then I suggest you do it more quietly."

 _Bribes are A-okay, but not feeding peasants. Huh._

It's hard to be the epitome of discretion for two days while unearthing a small mountain of mollusks. The shellfish meat gets swapped to locals, while I keep shells and pearls. The skin of my hands crust with brine, then crack and bleed. But I don't stop. Not even when it typhoons. Soujiro explains that the clams migrate nearer to the surface during stormy weather. If harvested right, the iridescent shells and rare colored pearls fetch a tidy sum. A sum that politicians enjoy being "gifted".

 _Bribes._ In my mind, alliances are built on mutual feelings of trust and camaraderie. Not corruption. I say as much to my soon-to-be co-conspirator.

"Can't we convince Lord Aida to form an alliance some other way?"

"No, not when other people will exert influence _against_ an alliance."

"Who?"

He gives me a baleful look.

I flush. _Decades of_ _bad neighborly relations. Right._ "There's other ways to influence Lord Aida, besides bribing him."

"Don't be naïve," Soujiro scoffs. "You're smarter than that."

This doesn't exactly make me swoon. I decide I'll do most of the digging for clams in the gritty sand, and let Soujiro take charge of the _dirtier_ work.

Back in town, we knock door to door like greasy-haired salesmen pitching to every household around the castle. The first two receive the small bag with hardly a batted eyelash. The next few dispatch their servants, who get some silver for their troubles in delivering a message to their employers: _Support the Ueno-Aida alliance._ I can't take the moral high ground when war is at stake, but I can't help feeling awkward as Soujiro smiles, bows, and deposits bribe after bribe with the efficiency of a newspaper delivery.

Neither are castle folk left out. The Aida clan's castle is a flat, wide compound with many walls, rather than the stacked layers of Ueno. I follow as Soujiro tuck in his belt and heaves the largest stash in a bulging sack across the castle compound. Courtyards are laid out in concentric layers. The outer layer are the daimyo's personal stables, housing prized siring horses. In the interior layers, the castle is filled with small shrines, with more ornaments of spinning moons are tucked into alcoves.

Our final destination is a building that's taller than the rest. The shingles are a different color, too.

"The kabuki theatre," says Soujiro.

"I guess Lord Aida loves the arts," I hum. "Looks snazzy."

"I don't know what this _snazzy_ is," Soujiro grunts. "But yes, it's newly renovated."

I'll meet Lord Aida for the first time, inside. The daimyo doesn't hold governance meetings with his retainers except every other month. Apparently, there's time in the midst of impending war to watch kabuki shows. Lord Aida's supposedly ten times more cheerful, and thus ready to grant requests, at kabuki intermissions. I add "culturally sensitive" to the things I know about Aida Fujitaka. But I'm beginning to suspect he's just a "hands-off" type of governor. Or a bad one.

"Walk behind me at all times. Chin up, eyes down," growls Soujiro. "And try not to talk."

"Maybe I'll make a good impression with my winsome personality," I say. Soujiro is not impressed. He pushes his sleeve up to his face and mutters something like 'spare me'.

We step inside the kabuki hall, to bribe, ahem, _gift_ the biggest fish of all. I follow Soujiro's advice—since I still suck at bribing people. Also, because guards clap their arms around my shoulders as soon as I step past the large wooden beams holding up the theatre auditorium. Lanterns light up the interior, rendering chiaroscuro on all the sitting spectators, dressed in eclectic finery.

Audience gazes tear away from the stage. Eyes trail Soujiro's smooth glide up the aisle, toward the front row seat: there's a contingent there, with fans swirling the musty air. In the center: the shadowed Aida clan head. In the low light of the theatre, I can't make out their exchange. Finally, the guards finish inspecting my identification papers (Soujiro bribed a bureaucrat for these). I shuffle into the row behind.

"Sarutobi, you know I don't like to mix business with pleasure." The daimyo's voice is a high thin reed. The back of his head has a snowy top-knot. "Can't this wait?"

"I'm afraid not, my Lord."

A guard drags Soujiro's bulging sack away through the aisles, earning copious darting gazes and fan flutters. I flush a bit at the whispering audience.

The kabuki entre-acte begins.

Male actors with pasty faces and gargantuan wigs writhe to the clack of wooden blocks. Long horizontal slabs of paper mâché dance across the stage. It's mystifying. Ten minutes into what I suppose is a battle scene, I realize the brown slabs represent horses, depicting Aida's glorious battle featuring their famous cavalry charges. The scene ends with a clash of swords and quivering stage hands flourishing the actors' robes, to simulate their flapping in the wind. The curtains drop to enthusiastic applause.

Soujiro wastes no time. His speech includes logic about tactical gains, tearjerkers about leaving an neighbor defenseless, and patriotism more rousing than the previous scene onstage. A hush has fallen over the hall, as everyone strains to listen. I spot Kame and Konbu in the wings.I'm convinced Soujiro's eloquence will do it—but then Lord Aida turns his head. His expression's a far cry from those vigorous, energetic kabuki actors and the rest of the audience. Crepe-like skin stretches over his bulging chin. A large purple age spot creeps over his temple. His eyes are glazed and shifting.

"Well, Sarutobi, this comes as a surprise."

"I've always been blunt in my counsel, Lord Aida."

"Then I must be blunt in my reply. You understand."

"Of course."

I hold my breath. Was _the alliance scroll persuasive enough? Were the bribes expensive enough? Did I keep my mouth shut well enough?_

"Sign the alliance treaty. Send our fastest horse ahead."

I exhale, exultant. _Apparently._

Lord Aida smacks his lips. "And ready our attack for the day after tomorrow, while Ueno doesn't suspect us."

"My Lord—" Soujiro starts.

The curtains rise.

Music swells.

"Shhhh, intermission's over," says Lord Aida.

The theater resumes.

* * *

"Amaryllis."

I frown, then slap down the card. There's a long-stemmed flower painted on its face. Naki cheers from across the table.

We're seated in Soujiro's drawing room. Both twins are here. These are their quarters as well, since they're apprenticed to Sarutobi Soujiro to learn ninjutsu. As for me, I'm just a hostage entertaining my jailors with cheap parlor tricks. Who knew all those gambling nights weren't entirely a waste?

Though, not everyone consents to be entertained with guessing cards. Kouki lounges like a sleepy cat on the couch behind me. I've turned a few times to check he's not signing the identity of my card to his twin. But he only ever looks bored and drowsy.

"Lilac," says Naki.

"You're either cheating," I grumble. "Or you have superhuman talent for _hanafuda_."

Naki's blue eyes twinkle, but he says nothing. I shuffle, pluck out a card from the deck, and restart. And again, my opponent gets very quiet, almost trance-like, before he perks up and answers.

"Bellflower."

I swap the card with the one underneath.

"Chrysanthemum."

I shake my head. "Let's stop here. I can't shuffle well enough to beat you. I've shucked so many clams my fingers are still numb."

"Excuses," Kouki murmurs from behind. "Also, don't you have anything better to be doing?"

"Like?"

"Plotting to stop the invasion, maybe?" he spits. "Gonna poison Lord Aida?"

"And give everyone an excuse to finally behead me? No thanks." I shuffle the deck of cards a final time and put them back into the silk bag. An attendant comes in with a bowl of boiled chestnuts, and, numb fingers aside, I start peeling one.

The twins' teacher arrives, and stops in front of us. I proffer a chestnut.

Soujiro's brow wrinkles. "Kouki's right. What's going on in that scheming head of yours?"

"Nada." My palm scuttles chestnut shells into a pile on the low table. "My head isn't decorating the vanguard's charge to Ueno Castle tomorrow. That's all I need." I peel another chestnut, and proffer it to Kouki this time. He looks away in disgust, muttering 'brainless'. Naki takes it instead.

"You have a plan, don't you?" Naki ask curiously. "The invasion's tomorrow. So you'll have to act tonight."

"I appreciate your faith in me." I offer a bland smile. "But I really don't. I did my job already, in delivering the scrolls. If an alliance fails, we'll just have to blame—"

"Don't you dare blame Sensei," Kouki bites out. "He didn't have to try to help you."

"—I was going to say the Ueno court calligrapher," I toss nonchalantly. "The letter wasn't waterproof."

Kouki's frown lines deepen humorlessly. "Well, we're headed to dinner. Stay here and keep out of any monkey business."

"Monkey business would be your sensei's thing," I mutter under my breath.

I've lost my appetite for boiled chestnuts at the mention of real dinner. Soujiro and the twins are off to the banquet before the Aida's invasion of Ueno tomorrow. Only nobility and military men are invited. Being talented ninja, these three are part of the invading troop. As a captive, I suppose I wouldn't be. But I'm still a bit sore. Why am I always excluded from these night before a battle feasts? I'm starting to think it's bad karma for being ambivalent about the actual fighting.

"How long will you be at the banquet?" I ask innocently.

"None of your business, is it?" Kouki snaps at the door. Soujiro gives him a wry look. Naki only chuckles uncomfortably.

 _What a grouch, that Kouki._ But a grouch is still much better than a _nosy_ grouch.

As soon as I'm sure the door's clicked, and the screen's slid in place, I reach a hand under the low table. My fingers scoop away a decorative cushion, and swipe up the _aperitif_ I've been saving:

A map of Aida Castle.

At the end of the day, I'd swap lesser evil for evil. Bribing people isn't something that takes finesse. I'd kept a pearl for myself, and offered it to a servant in charge of cleaning the floors. In return, I wanted a map of the castle layout, indicating who cleaned what, when. There's no way he'd refuse Lord Sarutobi's newest apprentice, right? Not when my slight cold has such similar symptoms to severe dust allergies.

There's little to prep as I slip out the door. The plain fabric of my kosode closely matches the servant outfits. The corridors here are wide rather than narrow, and sound echoes along the mortar ceilings at the slightest scuffle of dirt underfoot. Shadows seem to lean toward me as I race down long stretches. That may just be the flickering fire of my candle, a trick of the light.

The plan is simple. Too simple.

I'll camp out at Lord Aida's private quarters. Then, beg him to reconsider. And if that fails, well, the step after is genjutsu, I suppose.

And after that...

I consider the urchins that live in the Ueno shanty towns. Then, the peasants along Aida's coastal villages. How quickly would they be like those dying soldiers moaning at the edges of the valley?

Maybe my scruples can be sacrificed.

* * *

The map leads me through a series of concentric circular mazes, before I encounter painted double doors. I recognize the rough blob on the sketched map. _This is Lord Aida's bedroom._ I lean into the wood. The air seems to flow faintly from within. Open windows. The night is chilly—perhaps Lord Aida prefers such.

I push the double doors, entering as a maid would. Imperfectly, with audible footsteps. This room, like that first chamber post-kidnapping, is filled with dully gleaming contraptions, dusty in the filtered moonlight. The Aida are the materialists of the Sengoku Jidai. Lord Aida, most of all. Whispering curtains cast ephemeral shadows against lacquered mahogany surfaces. An ornate wooden partition separates the far corner of the room—a potential hiding place for me. Kunai should pass through the carved spaces nicely. After all, it's a straight shot to the bed.

Indeed, the windows are open. I snuff out my candle. Just in case someone outside peers in. This is the first floor, after all.

The shadows shift.

My body spins, fingers clawing the air, wrist snapping against something firm.

 _Armor?  
_

Despite having firsthand evidence of the tangible body, in the swirl of dust and moon, this figure is haunting. As he moves forward from behind the wooden partition, he looks every inch a cloaked specter. His presence doesn't come from the surroundings, however.

Uchiha Madara can inspire fear no matter the circumstances.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

His voice carries a new chill.

I balk. _In this room, the night before war, before the daimyo returns._ There are very few things this looks like.

"Part-time cleaning job," I say, as I scrub my brusied wrist against my clothes. "A girl's gotta feed herself."

His eyes narrow. "By assassinating Lord Aida?"

It's like his eyes can see through lies. Even half-lies. "I was..." I stall. _Planning to twist the daimyo's arm a little?_ Casting a genjutsu doesn't sound innocuous, either. "I-I'm here to change Lord Aida's mind."

"It would have been an easy task," Madara says. "If not for my presence."

"Meaning?" I pause in confusion. "Why are _you_ here?"

He doesn't quite answer. Instead, his red eyes evolve in the shadows. The black pupil expands, until it engulfs the tomoe. _Illusions, borne of great sorrow._ Madara's own words. It's hard to breathe, but I wrestle my lungs into working properly.

"Izuna acquired them too."

"I-I'm sorry," I gasp. _I'm sorry for you._ The room is spinning.

Madara's fingers ghost to his Mangekyou. "Why not use this, to kill Lord Aida? You seemed conflicted, even back then. When I saw it the first time."

"I—" my voice cracks. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"You hesitate. If you're not going to use it, then leave," Madara says, and there's no second option in his words. My mouth is dry. I wonder what he would do if I stay. _Or if I can,_ a doubting voice niggles in the back of my head. _He's got the Mangekyou too, now. That speaks to more than just his capabilities, but to what he's willing to do._

"Not until I get an alliance," I say with more bravado than I feel. "I'm here to stop the invasion on Ueno. We're going to ally, and keep the peace in Fire."

Madara's words are cutting. "Is _that_ what you think you're doing? While you hide here, waiting to ambush a daimyo?" His eyes spin their maddening dance. "Call it what it is, _Uchiha_ Sarada."

"I don't know what you mean," I insist. "I'm seeking an alliance. Peace."

"You're talented in battle, but weak in resolve," he returns. "You're insightful, but you insist on following your own stubbornness." Madara continues. "You think an alliance is better than war? You're simply choosing between which side you'll abandon. If not within Fire territory, then without. Alliances alone won't satisfy a daimyo, Sarada. You need to be ruthless. Accept your options. Your choices."

Words bloom in my mind's eye. The calligrapher's opening sentences:

 _Will you be our ally?_

 _Or shall we kill one another?_

It's a pity that I have no good answer. What I have is more stubbornness.

"I want peace. Between the Ueno and Aida."

 _Between the Senju and Uchiha_ , I want to add. Instead, I say:

"W-We're building a new village. You could help."

"We?"

Madara's eyes narrow, and he takes a step forward.

The double doors fling open. A bitter gale floods inside. Knives made of wind slice at my face, then my arms as I shield. When the flurry subsides, Madara's black cloak is in tatters. A thin trickle of blood drips from his forearm. My own face feels raw as I turn, expecting Soujiro. But it's another familiar nose plus beady eyes.

"Ikkyun!"

Madara visibly scowls. "Sarutobi Sasuke?"

"I'm both," snaps the Ueno groundskeeper, and confirms he's the same old Ikkyun by launching into a rambling rant. "And I'll be damned if I have to take on any more dual roles in my lifetime. I thought I could trust Jiro, at least. You'd have thought Nara blood would make my cousin smarter. Or at least proficient at the shadow bind so I don't have to go cleaning up after—"

"Calm down, uh, Ikkyun." Calling the man by my Papa's name is too much. My stomach does a flip flop, because Konoha's interwoven history is a lot more complex than I thought.

"Where's the Aida daimyo?" Madara intones.

"Where do you think?" the groundskeeper squints at Madara like the Uchiha clan head is just another pest that's keeping him from mulching his tulips to perfection. "Sprawled out on the banquet table. Anyone besides a Sarutobi would pass out from our clan's best sake."

"Thought we wouldn't notice, did you?" Ikkyun continues. "Jiro's thick, but not stupid enough to let suspicious new funds go untraced. For stupid luxuries like theater renovations, even," scowls Ikkyun. "Aida's best horses were quick enough to reach the Sarutobi clan, after a hefty payment to the stable managers. Your gig is up, Uchiha."

Ikkyun seethes the last part. "Leave the Aida court and run back to play dog for your foreign masters."

My head spins. So Soujiro had kept some pearls for a rainy day, too. As for these new revelations, I realize Lord Aida's decisions are part of a web much larger than relations between Ueno and Aida. Much more consequential than who owns some rice fields. I think of Madara's earlier response to my words.

 _'I-I'm here to change Lord Aida's mind.'_

 _'It would have been an easy task, if not for my presence.'_

I turn to Madara.

"So you're _not_ here to assassinate Aida?"

"Quite the opposite," interjects Ikkyun. "This man is here to make sure the daimyo follows through with the Ueno invasion. The Uchiha have truly fallen. Being paid off by foreign daimyo to come mess with Fire territory," he continues witheringly, this time to Madara. "You're part of this region too! How could you betray Fire to outsiders?"

"Everyone outside the clan are outsiders," Madara says evenly. "Especially monkeys."

Voices ring down the maze-like hall. "Lord Sasuke!" Kouki slides into view next to Ikkyun. "Lord Aida's generals have left the banquet. Some have already given orders to march."

"I told you to give 'em more sake!" grumbles Ikkyun.

Naki emerges next, panting. "We can't keep the entire military sloshed forever." He peers into the room, and spots me. "Hey, Kagami! So you _were_ up to something! Sensei guessed as much, and attached some shadows to check!"

"Stop calling her that," Ikkyun snaps. "She's Sarada. _Uchiha_ Sarada."

My jaw drops. He knew? Since when? _  
_

Kouki's gaze scalds me. "A double agent!"

"Triple agent?" wonders Naki.

"Never mind the girl," says Ikkyun. "We need to staunch the invasion into Ueno. And that means weeding out the root: this Uchiha filth right here."

Besides appreciating Ikkyun's gardening metaphors, the pieces fall into place for me. _The Uchiha have been hired by foreign clans before. This time, it's to invade Fire territory._ _But alongside that, they're fanning a civil war amongst various Fire daimyo._ From the open windows, I hear war preparations being made outside: soldiers stacking supplies onto caravans and—

"Horses!"

"She's cracked," says Kouki.

"Set loose the horses." I whirl toward Ikkyun. "You've already bribed those stable managers once, right?"

He growls. "You expect to lead over a hundred horses out of the city before people realize what's up?"

"Well, horses get spooked naturally. You cut their rope, and I'll—"

It's Madara who catches on first. "Don't even think about an earthquake."

"Why not?" I return. "If you're just going to run over these lands with your foreign daimyo anyway, why do you care if I landscape it a bit?" I pause, feeling hot shame at losing my temper. "Y-You're outnumbered. Why not just join our alliance?"

"He's not invited," Ikkyun cuts me off, his face so livid he foams a bit at the mouth. "Don't invite people without my permission."

"Wait," Naki interjects. "So Sarada's really from the same clan as Mr. Demon Face here?"

 _Demon Face._ I almost laugh. This whole era's crazy. Which suits me just fine.

"Distantly related," I say. "Very distant."

Kouki brandishes a dagger. "Are we going to fight, or are we going to stare at each other all night?"

I watch Madara's scarlet eyes flare anew. _Shit._ "Stare, I think."

"Good," says Ikkyun, and flaps a hand at me, like I'm a dog. "You stare too."

"I'm not very good," I hedge, as both Naki and Kouki shoot me shocked looks.

I don't want to fight Madara. But I don't want the Aida invasion to occur. And maybe, in the end, I have little choice but to do what Ikkyun says. I can't let these people die, and I know Madara has no qualms about making that happen. As for stopping him... should I at least try? It's the truth, that I'm not very good at using the Mangekyou. After all, I have only one nightmare to share. Even when I try others, it often morphs into that one.

But maybe... maybe that dreamscape will get Madara to understand. He'll have a peek at what I'm trying to avoid. And even if he doesn't fully understand it, the vision will plant a seed. A thought, of what is hoped for, and what is required... of shinobi... to survive. _Peace. Vengeance._

"Are you with us or against us?" growls Kouki.

 _Again with the two options._

I feel the air in the room shift. Everyone's closed their eyes but Madara and myself.

"You owe me, girl!" shouts Ikkyun.

This is as close as I'll get to a 'please'. Even as I pull away from reality, the presence of so many of this era's faces grounds me. My chest hurts, breathing harsh—but at least, I don't revisit those carved out fields and crumbled mountains alone.

Madara's with me.

A semi-enemy. A semi-ally.

Still, anyone is better than facing this alone.

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 _In the dreamscape, I paint Hokage Mountain. There's no need to paint it vividly. In start black and white, the cliffs bleed black and white. I wait for the familiar figures. The ones I love and the ones I hate._

 _Everything appears like a murky pool. I see Madara's presence, like an anchor. There are strange carrion crows flying about. Faces I don't recognize, who all look a bit like me. I breathe. This is not real. I refocus on painting the vision of things to come. Of things that have happened._

 _As always, I wait for him to arrive._

 _"I'll support you."_

 _There's a stinging in my eyes, and the heartbreaking visage burns away._

 _Too late._

 _Much too late._

 _I burn it away. Perhaps Madara burns it away._

 _I'm grateful, as I fall to my knees, watching the mountain faces crumble into sand._

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"Get up, stupid girl!" shouts a faraway voice. "Don't sleep! Get up, Sarada!"

 _I'm so tired. A few more min—_

Except, my mattress is hot. It's burning hot.

It's not a mattress, either. It's the wooden floor. My skin steams, but it's not sweat that's coming from my pores. I trace my face and I feel the charred soot. My vision's blurry and itchy. Numbly, I close my eyes.

"Get up!"

 _Ikkyun._

The voice gets fainter.

There's a crackling, splintering sound. Then, a buzzing fills my ears.

Wooden beams that used to tower overhead, gauzy curtains that used to float on the breeze—these are swept up in a maelstrom of licking, hissing flames. I jump to my blistered, feet. My lungs protest. There's blood on my cheeks, and I wonder if I'd gotten cut by Ikkyun's wind earlier, too.

Voices sounds out in the inferno.

The entire compound is on fire, and parts of the corridors have collapsed. I hear the shrieks of fleeing courtiers, whinny of horses, cries of soldiers outside as they move their equipment. My legs run as if in a dream. How did this happen? Is this Aida Castle? I pass one or two black husks, and the smell of roasting flesh makes me gag. I bend over an abandoned pitcher. But there's little in my stomach. I crawl away, clutching my burned arms, glad for my simple clothing which doesn't trail and catch fire like the flowing robes of nobility. In between searching for a way out, I periodically douse myself with a suiton. That produces black smoke, which coaxes a coughing fit.

Finally, I regain my senses enough to use my brain.

 _I'll punch my way out._

It's risky, but I don't see anyone else nearby. I can't imagine there's more damage to be done to this place. I channel my chakra against a sturdy mortar wall—it's hot to the touch, but not aflame—and let loose.

Several more beams fall. The architectural belly of the castle rips asunder in a splintering mess as my body rolls low, in the direction of my punch. _There!_ A sluggish night breeze hits the sizzling skin of my bare left arm. I rip away the rest of the smouldering sleeve and wipe my sooty face.

This new room has windows. _Good._

A thin, reedy voice rises above the firey backdrop—almost mistakable as part of the keening flames. The opposite wall of the corridor has also caved, to reveal the room across the hall. There's a near-empty bottle of sake being tossed about. A large moving mound of fabric is splashing itself with the bottle.

Lord Aida!

—Buried under his fine silks, dousing himself for a funeral pyre. That, or he's drinking, but missing his mouth fantastically. The fire creeps onto his shimmering robes. His full face pours sweat, and sake smells steam away into the crackling hot air.

' _An alliance is out of the question.'_

Well, it's not as if I relish the thought, either.

The daimyo gibbers in a warm puddle of boozy stink. "You," he slurs. "Are ya 'ere to bribe m'too? Or kiiill me? Do it! F'rce me into your petty schemes! Just do it quick! Ha, ha!"

I shake my head, disgusted.

 _So tired._

I grit my teeth. It's either my angry swear, or the demon eyes—but I'm sure Lord Aida pees himself as I approach. I hoist him up on my back anyway. Beyond worrying about our escape strategy, I wonder what feudal lords fucking eat. With my arms supporting the quivering daimyo, I can't punch anymore. I do kick through the windows, and hoist my creaking knees to the first-floor ledge.

The night scene is full of glowing embers. We stumble out of the flaming pyre that used to be Aida Castle, into the open air. The rain's stopped. Delirious with fatigue, I crane my neck to the sky, to try to see the stars.

A billowing cloak covers the heavens, like an overgrown bat.

A fierce wind chases it away. My passenger, the aged daimyo, cries out. He falls to the ground with a heavy thud, and rolls to a standstill. My knees buckle too, at the sudden shift in weight. I force myself to kneel, and look around. There's Konbu and Kame, in the outer courtyard, dousing the fires together with some soldiers. Plumes of acrid smoke float away into the crisp night air. Naki and Kouki sweep in to take the unconscious daimyo into their custody. On the north side, I can see the stables. They're silent and empty.

Then there's Uchiha Madara, a few feet in front.

"Step away, Monkey."

Several feet more, and there's Ikkyun—or Sarutobi Sasuke. The uncanny fierceness of which I only caught glimpses is palpable now. "Under normal circumstances, I'd be thrilled to get rid of her," mutters Ikkyun. "But I can't do that."

"We'll trade for the daimyo," Madara steps closer.

"Convenient, since you have no use for the dismantled Aida forces," Ikkyun says. "But do you really think we'd let you waltz out of here?"

"Stop me if you can." Madara's voice seems to echo through the night. "I could raze this place to the ground."

This isn't a bluff. Yes, Madara and I are both drained from our genjutsu illusions. Even so, our match has made me realize that Madara's chakra reserves are far larger than mine. Just how strong is Uchiha Madara? Just how strong can an Uchiha that's not Papa be? A part of me seethes. Another part feels ashamed of my own weakness.

Ikkyun tuts. "You have other things to attend to, now, Uchiha clan head. The northern war has started. Your clan needs you."

"Take your own advice. You're clan head as well."

"I'm not the one leading an invasion," Ikkyun returns. "One doomed to fail."

No one breathes.

Madara steps toward me.

"Stop," Ikkyun commands. "She's under Hashirama's protection."

Madara stiffens and obeys, but it's like someone's put an invisible straitjacket on him. I look to the other end of the compound and see Sarutobi Soujiro. Ikkyun had said his cousin had Nara blood. So Soujiro knows a bag of Nara tricks, after all.

For a brief moment, Madara looks to me, his eyes impossibly dark. Then, back to Ikkyun.

"The Senju have laid claim?"

" _Hashirama_ has."

The silence is deafening.

Then, voice crescendoing: "You think that _scares me?"_

"No," growls Ikkyun. "But it's a consideration. A consideration for someone _responsible_ for your clan's future."

 _The future._

This seems as good a time as any to invite Madara to build a village together. It's probably a terrible idea. But I've realized most things are. I can't wait for the perfect time. There is none.

"Madara, I'll see you on the northern border."

Several pairs of eyes shift toward me. Some wide. Some narrowed. It doesn't matter. Didn't Naruto-sama always say it? _My word is my promise._ Madara slows. The strange chakra that seemed to form a shell around him falls away.

I've realized there's a third option. _Neither allies. Neither willing to kill each other._

I gather all my courage.

"And if our side wins, come help us build—"

An out-of-body sensation grips me. My lips hang open, silent.

 _ _—_ Konoha._

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 _tbc_

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* * *

 _Suzu:_ This was a giant, detailed chapter. But seeds have been planted. So many. And I need to sleep then do some real work.

Clarification re: flashback/dreams - don't worry too much about the ambiguous language in those. They're meant to be unclear, until it gets revealed properly. There's a lot this chapter, actually, that will be explained more plainly later.

Extra Note: hanafuda has more than just flower cards, but I selected particular ones to tell a story, in hanakotoba. A quick google search into the (Japanese, not Victorian England) meanings hints at Sarada-Boruto backstory. This is just the author's extra bit of symbolism, not the character actually selecting those cards on purpose.

A _huge_ thank you to readers! Guest reviewers, you all rock too. I'll try to respond to your questions en masse at the end of a chapter when enough pressing Qs have been collecting. Anime Lover, yes, I do have the story ending planned.


	7. lacquer 3

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"And if our side wins, come help us build—"

My mouth stops. Then resumes. The voice is mine. The inflection is mine.

But the _words._

Not mine.

"—the Senju clan. I'm going to rebuild what the Uchiha have destroyed."

My hands reach into my pocket as if pulled on puppet strings. More words drop from my tongue like acid. "Fire territory would be better off without the cruelty of the Uchiha."

I bring out a five-faced copper die, holding it up in the glowing torches. Burnished edges. Worn sides. The token of a gambler.

"I'm severing ties. Don't look for me anymore."

My mouth snaps shut, but the damage is done.

I try to close my eyes before I actually close my eyes. What stands before me is a storm. What I now can't see, I _feel._ Waves of chakra wash over Aida Castle's courtyard. Violent. Visceral. Like subatomic radiation consuming itself, Madara's chakra blisters like an imploding star, almost tangible as it buffets my skin. Then, impossibly, it winks away with a small, soft sound.

Almost like goodbye.

* * *

I sag, limp.

A puppet with cut strings.

My limbs tingle, nerves alive with sensation. This feeling isn't new. Inojin's mother showed the signature technique to me. It was the same technique—like experiencing the world behind a glass pane. You can't rage against the invisible barrier. You can't lift a pinky. You can't control the words you say. After it's done, you take the consequences.

 _The consequences…_ Soot from the dying fire gathers and stings my eyes. The courtyard feels hollow, like Madara had sucked all the chakra inward and created a vacuum in his absence. I should be glad none of us felt the brunt of his anger. But I'm not glad. This isn't like the time I walked away from Madara and Izuna at the tower. Pressure builds in my throat. My jaw clamps down. I force myself to _think_ rather than feel.

 _Think, Sarada._ The immediate impulse is to move my newly freed body—chasing, fleeing, whichever. Where? Who knows where Madara went. Somewhere without me. What good would catching him now do? To burn the Uchiha once is already unforgivable. To burn them twice…. My bones seem to triple in weight. In my heart, I'd chosen to be allies. But someone else chose differently, out loud. They'll assume that I'm an enemy now _._ And this is no easy assumption to reverse. Say I try to wheedle back into the Uchiha camp. Then, I'll be branded a "traitor" not by just one side, but both sides of the war.

 _Observe._ People begin to gather to the smoldering ruins of Aida Castle. They forage through burnt ruins as if in a trance, slowly, longingly.

 _Decide._ Don't run. Don't run from the stares of the servants, soldiers, nobles. Not now. The future had many broken things. But the past does, too. I've been too detached—running when things burn me. I've treated this era as a foundation for a new Konoha, but given it no courtesy beyond what I think I need to build the future.

Dropping to the ground, my hands dig through the debris. Splintered chairs. Snapped incense sticks. Once-ornate clocks with their twisted suns and melted moons. Robotically, I help pile the pieces together. There's no danger of tears. Grieving is a luxury I can't afford. I've seen this scene before. Too many times, in my mind's eye.

 _Konoha._

I miss Konoha. I miss its people. Mama's nagging, Sensei's poses, Mizuki's jokes, Chouchou's laugh, Boruto's— _no, stop._ I miss it all. Fiercely. Overwhelmingly. I miss it enough to make it anew. To fight for it. Not just against the Otsutsuki, but against all who'd block its formation and flourishing. _Anyone._ That includes the invaders on the northern border. I should add another name. Someone not so faceless. A bitter taste settles in my mouth.

Because Madara and I are on opposite sides now.

As I wander the courtyard, I hear murmurs. Horrified. Distraught. Suspicious. Perhaps even bordering on respect. Madara lingers like a specter long after he's gone. People guess he'd switched himself with a bunshin. But no one knows how, or why he'd even allowed that bunshin to be discovered. Theories—more whispers, turned heads and lingering eyes settle too long. Shock and confusion all trained on my face before flitting away. Hastily. Accusingly.

Someone taps my shoulder.

I look up to see Sarutobi Soujiro, sooty face wreathed in shadow. But his expression's as clear as if I were reading from a book: _I know what you're feeling. Don't get angry now. You're smarter than that._ Out loud, Soujiro says:

"We leave for Ueno Castle in ten minutes."

 _We_ , he says. Again, his lingering stare is eloquent enough.

I walk to the stables to prepare, ignoring more whispers from others as I pass. The night wears thin, but the bitter taste doesn't leave my mouth. The carrels are intact, if damp from being hosed down. And empty. The cavalry horses must have been set free while I was unconscious. Some weight lifts from my shoulders.

Because no Aida army will march on Ueno Castle today.

Just a small band will go to Ueno, to deliver a message. I don't know what the message is. I'm still technically a captive. Grim, secret exchanges transpire between Soujiro and Ikkyun as they huddle like two old monkeys scratching each others' backs. Naki and Kouki quickly join the primate circle. Low murmurs. A quick swear or two. Nothing I can hear that's of substance.

Shortly, servants gather a few horses which were tethered behind the stables. The plan is to ride immediately for Ueno Castle. We're a small group. Soujiro, Ikkyun, the twins Naki and Kouki. And finally, myself. Aida's horses are giant, sinewy creatures scuffing the ground with their hooves—the kabuki plays don't do them justice. They look more than capable of traveling through the night.

Out of necessity, I accept Naki's sharing his mare with me. Naki gingerly settles behind me, like my entire body's sprung porcupine needles. Positions more or less settled, our horse starts at a robust trot. Then I see what Aida's cavalry can _really do_ , as our steed takes off past the castle gates, accelerating toward the mountains in the horizon.

Dawn breaks in red ribbons over sinuous clouds.

The wind no longer smells of fire, as it whips my hair from my face. The group rides close, in case raiders prowl the countryside. News of Aida's invasion is too fresh to leak from human mouths, but large fires draw attention. People use chaos to seize power. Case in point: Ueno.

Minutes or hours into the journey, I spot the pinnacle of Ueno Castle, haloed against the brightening sky. Cold early morning air seeps through my kosode. But my body—now fully mine—refuses to shiver. Riding horseback fails to lull my muted anger. My co-passenger notices.

Close to my ear, Naki's voice cuts against the whistling wind.

"You still mad?"

Silence speaks for me. Among the other things that have been speaking for me of late.

' _I'm severing ties with the Uchiha. Don't look for me anymore.'_

"I'm sorry 'bout what happened," Naki restarts.

It's been hours since I had my body stolen. But no one's acknowledged anything until now. Naki's body heat is enticing against my back, as he tries to tuck his thick cloak around me.

"I wish I could tell you more about how we did it," he says. "But the jutsu' _s_ top secret."

Not top-secret to me. He tucks his cloak over my elbow, and my eyes find the circular crest emblazoned there: _the Yamanaka crest_. More than any cloak, the unraveled mystery of the twins' finesse at cards raises my temperature.

 _Superhuman talent for hanafuda indeed! Hah!_

"C'mon, Sarada," Naki cajoles. "You can't stay mad when we're traveling buddies. You're here with us now, right?"

Dawn's rays paints the back of my eyelids red, where Madara's thousand-yard stare pierces through. My hand swats away the warm cocoon of Naki's cloak. The rest of me immediately regrets it. Not just because of the cold wind. _Think, Sarada._ Be reasonable. I force myself to talk.

"I'm coming with you…" I swallow. "… Because it's the right thing to do."

For Fire territory, now.

For Konoha, one day.

There's a long moment of uninterrupted hoof sounds thundering over the wet fields. I don't think I said something shocking or offensive. Curious, I swivel. Naki's pale blue eyes are thoughtful, focused on the path the horse navigates. The sunrise's halo paints his flaxen head a rosy gold.

"The right thing, huh? You sound like Kouki."

This wrings a wry smile out of me. "Don't tell him. He won't like having anything in common with me."

Naki ignores the jibe. "Have you ever done something because you want to? Not because it's the right thing?"

"Sure," I say unthinkingly.

"Kouki always does what he thinks is right, even if it hurts others. But he doesn't hate you. Neither do I." Naki's hands tighten on the reins. "Let me apologize for him, for us. Really, I'm sorry." His voice is clear and earnest. "Sarutobi-sensei said we had to make Madara give up on you. Allying with the Uchiha is a bad idea," he says. "Now you don't have to go north. You can stay at Ueno Castle."

"What if I _want_ to fight?"

"I'm telling you this for your own good, Sarada. Even if you _are_ blood kin with the Uchiha, this is safer. It's crazy, to wager on Uchiha Madara allying with us. Crazier still to challenge him to a fight. You can't win." There's a long pause. "All the shinobi clans gathering on the northern border right now are _serious_ fighters, the best of the best. And among them, the Uchiha still stand out as ruthless and bloodthirsty. Telling Madara you're severing ties and under Senju protection was the best option."

 _Except now we've pitted the Senju against the Uchiha. Now Konoha will be without one or the other_.

But I can't tell Naki these things. Just like I can't tell him I know about his jutsu, and that he's affiliated with the Yamanaka. I wonder if there'll ever be someone I can tell.

Up ahead, the silhouette of Ueno Castle grows larger and larger.

"We wanted the best for Aida _and_ Ueno," Naki says gently. "For you."

 _Don't we all want the best?_ I don't say this aloud. _Even when none of us know what it is._

* * *

The gates of Ueno Castle are flung wide open. Fanfare—actual cheering and not a sliver of gate cracked open out of embarrassment—welcomes us. People stream onto the lawns. In disproportionate numbers, soldiers gather in a sea of lacquered green armor plates. The barracks did not have these kinds of numbers. Hundreds, no, thousands, spill over the ramparts. As we approach, I scan over the crowd with my Sharingan.

"Turn off the eyes," advises Naki. "Besides giving away your jutsu, you'll scare our host."

I doubt it, but I oblige. Naki's genuinely looking out for me. Our host—a lone figure in sky-blue robes—emerges from the main gate as our horses thunder down the dirt path. Belatedly, I connect the dots on these new soldiers.

Forget fortifying the castle. These numbers are enough to march to battle. Hashirama has done his job and more. _If only I had_ , too, a resentful part of me whispers.

"Big smile for the crowd," Naki urges.

His own face is radiant, teeth so white they're twinkling. I give what I think is a solid effort, until Kouki rides by and flashes me a grimace so severe it's contagious.

Soujiro leads the vanguard of our small team of horses. Ikkyun's fallen back now and looks just a grouchy groundskeeper and not the Sarutobi clan head. Ikkyun hops down from his horse first, an agile feat considering his short stature. Then, scowling, the old man seizes the bridle and walks inconspicuously to his cottage.

The crowd barely notices, as they swell forward to welcome us. People push in and welcome us with words and nods. The Yamanaka twins are eye-catching, with matching frosty hair and eyes the color of the cloudy morning sky overhead. A few new Ueno soldiers size up the fresh-faced twins in their battle regalia—as if assessing their battle prowess. In my threadbare servant's uniform, I'm passed over.

Hashirama in Murata-guise pops out from between two particularly beefy guards. He marches over to Soujiro and clasps his hand, then does the same with the twins. Naki returns, enthusiastic, if not a bit starry-eyed, while Kouki tries not to stammer a greeting. I hang back. I don't want to face Hashirama and tell him what happened. Not when I'm such a failure at making alliances. As it happens, I don't have to face him now, it seems. Hashirama make no move to greet me. Instead, he leads Soujiro to the castle, guiding the older man up the path from the main entrance.

A nudge to my elbow scatters my thoughts. It's Naki, already being mobbed by rather _mature_ court ladies. His eyes plead for me to follow him and Kouki's welcoming guides into the castle. I have a good feeling those ladies will serve breakfast to the two good-looking travelers. My empty stomach consents for the rest of me. But as I take my first steps, a calloused hand lands on my shoulder.

I jump, expecting Hashirama. It's Souta, the garrison commander, looking older and greyer than I remember. What remains unchanged is how he minces no words, as his hand clasps tight.

"Kagami, come."

* * *

The garrison armory is full of secluded niches where rusted weapons hang for polishing. Souta hunches over the bench. I sit opposite, noting how the smell of tanning oil and sword polish eases some of the stress lines on his face. Souta starts by briefing me on the situation. I learn that the new soldiers collected here are now part of the expanded Ueno garrison marching to war. Or, more accurately—

— _they_ are marching to war.

I am not.

The question must be clear in my eyes. The garrison commander kneads the skin between his eyebrows with his forefinger and thumb, not looking at me. "We made the decision just before Ikkyun left for Aida."

"But why am I not marching?" I ask. I have an idea. Ikkyun had said my name at Aida Castle like a curse.

Souta engrosses himself with invisible specks of dust on his shoulder. "You were on delivery duty. You're ordered to rest now."

My voice is taut like a string. "Since when has resting been an order?"

"Commander," he adds, voice strained.

There's more. The truth is dancing on the edge of a knife, along with competing interests poised on a precipice. But it can't balance there forever. I wait for Souta's next words. They'll illuminate something. Finally, with a voice now like sandpaper:

"You know the Uchiha?"

Now I contemplate some invisible threads on my sleeve. "More than know."

"Then, what Ikkyun said—"

I interrupt with something like a laugh. "Take a wild guess." I remove my eyeglasses, then show him exactly what I mean. An electric current seems to run through the dry, stale air of the armory. Now, Souta's eyes don't—can't—waiver from my face.

Souta swears. Low and guttural. "Demon eyes."

I shoot a critical glance upward. Souta's not an unseasoned lay person. He's worked with shinobi. "They're called—"

"Sharingan," he finishes. "I know. I _also_ know what they can do."

"Does this change things, Commander?" I let the eyes fade, red bleeding out until it's just inky eyes behind bookworm lenses. Not intimidating in the least. But Souta's face has taken on the pallor of paper in a hue this era has yet to produce. My mouth twists into an undecided shape. "So who else knows I'm an Uchiha?"

"The Council knows. My father told me. Ikkyun only told us that we shouldn't bring you north." Souta scans my face. "Why did you come here? You're overqualified for a job as a garrison recruit."

"What's not to like? The food's great."

Souta chuckles despite himself. Thin gruel and dried seaweed is not his nor any rich noble's definition of great. Once, it wasn't mine, either.

"Anyway," I continue. "Would you have hired me if you'd known I was an Uchiha?"

Souta stops. I sigh. "You wouldn't have." There's no response. I flap a hand dismissively. "No hard feelings. I've learned the Uchiha aren't popular in all circles."

For all my outward nonchalance, tension worms into my psyche. Now the Uchiha think I'm their enemy, and those at Ueno think I'm _their_ enemy. "I'm really between a rock and a hard place, aren't I?"

The garrison commander blinks. "What rocks?"

 _Be more careful about modern sayings, Sarada._ "The Uchiha clan head believes I've officially severed ties for good."

"Have you?"

"Does it matter?" I return.

Souta's face contorts.

"I _want_ to fight on Ueno's side," I press. "Let me march north."

He chews on his thoughts for a spell. "You're… really strange, you know that?"

I blink back mulishly.

"But I respect that." A lopsided smile tugs on his grim face, shedding years. "You're a hard worker. And talented. I can't fault you for where you come from."

Something knotted tight in my chest loosens, expands. It's impossible to fathom what form this respect takes. But it's enough. Maybe Souta feels responsible, as the person that hired me for the garrison. Whatever loosens his tongue, I'm grateful.

He tells me that the Uchiha have long been the choice of mercenary by Ueno's enemies. Where the Ueno have had ties to the Senju Clan, their enemies have been quick to snap up the Uchiha. The Senju limit their loyalties to certain fiefdoms, but the Uchiha fight for the highest bidder. As expected, this is not how most daimyo would like their hired mercenaries to behave. Some of Ueno's Fire territory neighbors to the west have hired Uchiha in the past. They're not happy about having to face them in a battle with foreign daimyo now. But for reasons that have everything to do with the Uchiha's reputation—and power to back up that reputation—the Uchiha Clan is always in high demand. Disliked, but in high demand.

Ueno's soldiers will march north alongside allies to meet the Uchiha. The hope is that the fighting will end there, if enough people congregate. I agree on that sentiment. But I disagree on another thing. I'm going to join, too. Whether I'm invited or not.

* * *

If there's one thing this era has taught me, it's the importance of planning ahead.

And hostages.

I start gathering materials immediately, taking bits and pieces of spare netting as others discard trailing lengths of it. The groundwork takes more time than the preparation or the execution, as I lay down the netting in the mulch beds in between my normal chores as a garrison soldier. These were the duties that I was relieved from as Hashirama's private bodyguard. As I scrub benches and polish spears, most of the new army recruits think I'm just a servant. No one bothers with me as I go about routine tasks while other soldiers get outfitted for marching north.

Half of the troops left yesterday, the first evening we'd arrived back. It's now the morning of the second day. By evening, the rest of the troops will have left.

Going through the motions of normalcy in the midst of war preparations is a painful reminder: _I'm on the outside, looking in_. This is true in more ways than one. There's been no sign of the others in the Aida party since the morning we'd arrived. Maybe meetings are going on, which I'm not privy to. With the twins, Soujiro, and Hashirama. With the Ueno Council.

The thought of them all scheming together without me makes my next moves easier. A resentful sort of emotion pushes adrenaline to limbs. I tell myself I'm not lonely, as I execute my plan. Ikkyun's not at his cottage. A quick scan inside the window of his cottage tells me there's no one there. I lay out my equipment next to the mulch beds, then wait for their caretaker to arrive for routine mid-morning flower watering.

He doesn't disappoint. A familiar gruff voice floats from afar, just as I spot the stout figure emerging from the grove of persimmon trees.

I clear my throat. "You might wonder what I'm doing—"

A glare makes me skip formalities.

"—I'm holding your tulips hostage."

My arms flourish toward the budding flowers. I know _how much_ Ikkyun loves his tulips, even though no sane person can fathom _why_. Any lesser man would have quaked in sheer terror at a comparable threat. To his credit, Ikkyun just keeps walking straight down the path. I survey the battleground: the space between him, the tulip beds behind me, and the cottage. I clamber up from my sitting position so he can see the edge of the net at my feet. The rest of the netting is strategically woven through the drier parts of mulch, covering maximum surface area over the tender buds. My mouth forms into an 'o' and issues a low stream of fire, into the air. _A free demonstration._

Again to the Sarutobi's credit, he keeps walking at his even pace.

"I don't have time for this," he barks.

"Neither do I," I return. "Just tell me why I can't join you at the northern border."

Ikkyun's squints are as piercing as ever. "So you don't defect to the Uchiha. I don't trust you."

"Only time will tell." I swallow. "Give me a chance."

I was prepared for a long stalemate, not a quick escalation. A figure comes jogging down the path that Ikkyun had taken. I tense, eyes red. Naki or Kouki! But I'm prepared, in case anyone takes over my body again. Unexpectedly, the twin drops to the ground in exhaustion, feebly picking out what seems like brambles in his flaxen hair. In between pants, he garbles out:

"He's made it to the pond."

Ah, the speaker is Kouki. But who's 'he'?

Finally, Ikkyun's visibly disturbed. "You were supposed to stop him!"

The pronoun game again. Kouki's no help. His expression flickers somewhere between fear and despair, shaking his head and picking out more brambles. As curious as I am, I struggle internally, because I still have my hostages to take care of. But the tulips aren't relocating anytime soon, and Ikkyun is running at full speed in the direction of Kouki's pointed finger. So I start running too.

I spot 'him' when I reach the bridge next to the koi pond.

It's the last person I expect:

The god of shinobi—laying on the mud bank, outer robes splayed out next to the pond, waving a small fish scoop the size of his fist. He warbles something about fishing, about how little fish get eaten by big fish. It's hard to tell. He's not the god of singing. Thankfully, there are no passerby to wince and plug their ears. My hand attaches to my face as I try to scuffle out of sight.

No such luck.

Hashirama's raven head pops up from the mud. The rest of him makes a beeline toward me.

"Yer baaack!"

Fight or flight kicks in as tremendous chakra pressure envelopes me. If it weren't for the fact that Hashirama can best me in close range combat, I'd kick him in the shins for ruining young Sarada's respectable image of the Shodaime. As it is, I just flee.

I can still make it past the hedges. Maybe duck behind and hope he doesn't find me. But the brambles in front of me explode in a tangled flurry of flora. _Mokuton!_ Before I can bury myself head first in brambles, a swift figure emerges like a blur from the neighboring rose bushes, grabs both my arms, and whisks us both to the sanctum that is the groundskeeper cottage. It's so fast the world is like a blur. Dazed, I crumple on the cottage floor. I let out a gust of air I've been holding.

"What was _that?"_ I seethe.

"He's drunk." With great nonchalance, Ikkyun plucks a thorn from my shoulder. Looks like he's going to let bygones be bygones over the tulip-hostages. Given the circumstances, I agree.

 _"But why's_ he drunk?"

"I'm as surprised as you are," he sniffs. "Guy's a lightweight."

I offer my best deadpan. Ikkyun bristles as he watches me watch him—like what I'm thinking in my head hurts him, a bit. Then he jerks his chin at the enormous ceramic vat in the kitchen. Déjà vu. I remember it being there when I slept in this kitchen. But I don't remember the lid being overturned, and several small clay flasks placed haphazardly on the bench. Ikkyun's words at Aida Castle float back to me.

 _Sarutobi Clan sake. The strongest in Fire territory._

I chance a fleeting, terrifying look outdoors. Kouki's pointing his fingers in a triangular shape in Hashirama's direction. Ineffectively. There's another figure that joins—Naki? Why's Soujiro not there? It's ironic, because as soon as I'd given up my plan with the tulips, the groves seem to explode with new tangles of wood, which drill into neighboring earth. That's several beds of rhododendrons overturned. Why Hashirama's doing with that with the mokuton, I have no idea why. I wince as another lashing root tunnels through the pretty clumps of pansies. I pretend not to hear the tiny noise that escapes Ikkyun, which sounds suspiciously like a man losing a piece of his soul.

"Did you spike his tea? Force it down his throat?" I groan. "How the hell does _that_ happen?"

As he watches his forsythia flail in the wind, Ikkyun's words tumble out. "I paid off his gambling buddies to drink him under the table. While I was in Aida."

"W-Why?"

"I need to hold him here."

"Here?"

"At the castle. Hashirama's job is to fortify it, remember?"

"Wasn't he doing fine yesterday?"

Ikkyun snorts. "That wasn't him yesterday morning. That was a Murata-double I had planted for these situations."

 _Murata doubles. These situations._ All sorts of questions pop up. But somehow, I feel relieved to hear this bit of information. "Yeah, it was strange…" _that Hashirama didn't greet me_. I shut my mouth just in time.

Ikkyun frowns like he knows I'm putting on airs. "I received orders to cheer him up or calm him down. Stop Hashirama from sneaking out with the marching soldiers. This was the last resort before we actually drugged him."

"Drugged," I echo. "You Sengoku era people baffle me."

Ikkyun gets all quiet. "You haven't seen him when he's desperate. Or _truly angry._ Right before I left for Aida, we got word that his brother's missing on the front lines."

I nearly snap my neck turning back to Ikkyun. "Tobirama?"

"No, the youngest one. Well, the one not already dead."

My blood vessels feel like they've been filled with ice water.

 _Itama._

Had their father sent Itama to the northern border?

"What happened?" I stammer.

"They think the Uchiha or one of their allied clans have taken him."

I bite my cheek, then jump to the door. Something hot and angry replaces the ice in my veins. "No one can afford to be drunk at a time like this!"

Ikkyun grabs for my wrist with a grunt, as if surprised. "Silly girl! Why do you think we did this? The guy's a wreck! Who knows if he'll actually try to sneak out to save his brother! Well, he can't! _Hashirama has orders._ " Sharp eyes scan me. "Hashirama is not to join the battle until his father sends word. All Ueno retainers are organized in a hierarchy. The Senju clan head's orders bind everyone _._ "

"Not me," I seethe.

The old man's eyes soften, as if he's baffled by my outburst. "These are family matters as much as they are political. "

I gape. _Why am I listening to some lecture? How did we get here from tulip-hostages?_

"Senju Butsuma is breeding that boy as his heir." A strange light settles in Ikkyun's eyes. "I wouldn't have done that to my sons, even if it made 'em stronger. But my clan isn't the Senju, and I can't tell Butsuma how best to raise his son. Neither can you."

My heart sinks slowly.

"So Hashirama isn't marching north either," I murmur.

"He's to stay here, on orders," Ikkyun confirms.

I once put the Shodaime on an unreachable pedestal. I'm not so blind that I wouldn't knock him down a few pegs, to a mere mortal with irrational, desperate impulses. Still, it's hard. I close my eyes. "First, I'll convince Hashirama to calm down. Then, we'll figure out a way to find Itama."

"If the boy's alive," says Ikkyun. "I wouldn't get my hopes up. The youngest siblings always go first."

My eyes flash. "Itama's _not_ dead."

I expect Ikkyun to scoff. Even lecture me some more. But Ikkyun—no, Sarutobi Sasuke—straightens from his usual hunch. He exudes all the aura I've seen in battle, calm but powerful. "We haven't got much time to lose," he says. "Follow me."

"Where are we going?"

"North." Ikkyun sounds very, very conflicted.

My pulse quickens. "To the border?"

"Yes," he confirms. "But first, I test your strength. Show me that you won't die on the first day."

I don't wait for him to take back his words or yell at me for falling for a lie. I make a beeline for the door and open it for the old monkey. Ikkyun eyes something beyond the open door and sighs.

"Even before that, we stop Hashirama. He's about to ruin my tulips."

* * *

At least five miles out of town, in the opposite direction of the farm fields, stretch endless fallow fields of baked, parched earth. I expect a few tumbleweeds to blow by. But Ikkyun and I are alone. Soujiro is on Hashirama-sitting duty, along with half the garrison, after stopping the trees from uprooting themselves and dancing out the castle gates behind us. I empathize, but I don't feel too bad. _I'll find Itama._ If Ikkyun's promise holds, I'm heading north with the final group of soldiers leaving tonight.

"You're gonna need to impress me, if you want to go north," he says, scratching his nose. Then he points to where I should stand. Presumably to receive a pummeling, if Ikkyun's face is anything to go by. Then again, his face always looks like the sky is falling.

"We're just going to spar?" I ask.

"Just a spar. Though I'll handicap myself." Ikkyun begins a series of limber stretches. "Use your eyes," he says once he straightens. _You won't stand a chance otherwise,_ his loose, easy posture suggests _._

My eyes begin to spin.

"Not at that level. You know what I want."

My teeth clench. "I don't know."

"The irises were different. We all saw you and that overgrown bat Madara use it," he scoffs. "Or just suit yourself." Ikkyun's face puckers, then his expression goes disturbingly peaceful. "Soon enough, what you want won't matter."

One second, I'm facing Ikkyun, then— _shitshitshit_ , he's 100 percent—

Sarutobi Sasuke.

It's hard to describe, but like this, no one could mistake him for just an old groundskeeper. I blink. The famed shinobi disappears from view. I scan all angles, and find none at eye level.

 _Try up._

There! He's launched himself into the winking midday sun. A cloud of summoning smoke vanishes as soon as it appears, leaving a glinting spear-like rod in its place. Its lacquered surface shines in the sun, reflective. I squint, scanning the item with my Sharingan.

"Nice walking stick, old ma—"

Roaring wind blasts down like a tornado, and it's suddenly freezing despite the bright sun, as if all my skin were being blown off my muscles, and the muscles off the bone. What feel like sharp knives slice against my knees, and they buckle. I lift my arms to block the flurry of kicks—quick and heavy. The summons rod spears the ground at my feet, and the earth begins to shake. I expect a crevice to open. No. Instead, a clean two-foot diameter of sediment rises upward. Juts toward the crystal blue sky.

Five feet.

Ten feet.

Thirty feet.

Up, up we rise. Accelerating as we go. All the while wind and taijutsu battering non-stop. I step back and meet the expanse of open sky. We now rival Ueno Castle's highest parapet. The air feels thin. Or maybe that's just my lungs, beginning to wheeze from the endless onslaught of jabs.

"Don't make me regret this." Ikkyun grasps the summons rod, whirls horizontal with centripetal force, and kicks me clean off the cylindrical precipice.

I fall only a short distance.

My kunai grinds into the vertical surface.

The craggy cylinder of Ikkyun's earth jutsu is thin, but sturdy. But no sooner have I gained purchase, then the earth around the kunai reforms, sediment moving _around_ the kunai. Like a live thing spitting out a foreign object.

This time, I bloody both hands, grasping for purchase on the rock. I should have fallen enough to be close to the ground. To a place where a fall means I heal broken bones or sprains. But no. The earthy column continues to rise. Always rising far enough so that a fall means death.

A blurred shape whizzes by midair.

 _Ikkyun._

He's almost comical, sliding down his spear-rod like some child on a playground pipe. We're up so high that the end of it looks like a twig stuck in an anthill opening below.

"Let me down!"

In response, a gust of wind slices my way. I sacrifice one hand on the rock face to block my face. Something warm trickles down my forearm. Then, pain.

With barely any lapse, the earth shifts again. My breathing hitches. I force adhesive chakra to my feet. _There._ I'm horizontal, on the vertical column. I break out in a run, full speed, down the pike.

 _Do I run faster than Ikkyun can make this thing rise?_

That's when the column crumbles.

Not splintering bits of rock. Not golf ball hail. It's a small avalanche of rocks bigger than my head. Hurtling out of the sky after me as I freefall. I hear Ikkyun yell from somewhere below: "You Uchiha are so full of it. Think you're all that. But really, you need someone else to kickstart your engines. You can't get stronger like normal people, but have to kill loved ones for your eyes to really be useful. How messed up is that?"

Then he shouts: "So tell me! For those eyes! Who did you kill?"

My vision clouds red.

Then, black.

The fires of _amaterasu_ burn long distances. It's more of a vengeful spirit than a proper fire. Vengeful spirit would be appropriate. There's a haunted feeling to the ethereal black flames, like noxious plumes of acid, settling and evoking real fire, then, in a flash, eviscerating the target to less than cinder.

"I've seen this!" Ikkyun growls, voice commanding, belittling. "Show me something. Something new."

I'm so close to the ground now.

Hurtling down.

Flames settle like a cushion to meet me, in the spot where I'll surely land. Not good. Surely I can be burned by my own embers. Surely, I deserve it. _But I don't want to. There's so much left I have to do. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

I squeeze my arms close to my cranium, and wait for impact. Strangely, I feel chakra gather around me. In my mind's eye, they're like two palms opened in prayer, shimmering in the daylight. Ikkyun's face is stark white against the burnt, scorched earth. I peer at him, puzzled, wondering if he's used wind to cushion my fall.

And then, we lock eyes, and the genjutsu visions are so fast—like a flood—that I can't keep Ikkyun out, completely.

' _Show me something.'_

A sudden handful of grit splatters across my eyes. Then a kick to my kneecaps crumples me to the ground.

What I now cannot see, I _feel._ Violently, like a storm. My chakra pulses like shifting wind. It feels like falling inside myself. Falling over and over until the unbearably hot feeling erupts into a cocoon. Until the fire no longer burns, but surrounds. Like a tangible thing. Like a violent, visceral thing. Like subatomic radiation consuming itself, my chakra blisters like an imploding star, as it buffets outward in crushing waves.

I command it to be my tool, like a sword. I give it shape, and black fire mixes with the chakra to breathe new life into the cocoon. My eyes still burn but I find myself standing upright, lifted by the chakra.

I open my eyes.

Ikkyun is nowhere to be seen. The ground is covered with bits of charcoal. Which is illogical because nothing should feel this soft and relaxing after being burnt with the equivalent of ninja hellfire. But regardless, I'm content to nestle a bit into the baked dust. I watch the rise and fall of my own chest. Though my abs ache, I bend just enough to pat my hand to my knees, to stop their jitters and apply medical chakra. Then, I do my forearm, which looks a gruesome mess. The blood from the other nicks and cuts from wind have already coagulated, so I leave those alone.

"... Just a spar?" I pant, staring at the shocking blue of the afternoon sky.

"Don't make me repeat myself," a familiar voice wheezes from a few feet away. I force myself to crane my neck in the direction of the voice. Ikkyun lies in a little crater of his own. Bits of him look a bit more charbroiled than usual, and his wrinkles look tight and shiny, as if a puckered brown berry had been dried out further.

"I wouldn't have trained you just now if you were hopeless."

"Training? S'nice... of you," I puff.

"Hah!" Then Ikkyun groans in pain, and lowers himself back into his crater. "There's too many hopeless ninja. Especially among large clans, who're taught to obey a strict hierarchy. They forget they're allowed to be stronger than the clan elders." I listen, waiting for my breathing to settle. That sounds right. I know a bit about Hinata-sama's history.

"I thought that was the case with you," Ikkyun muses. "That you were used to holding yourself back because you were an illegitimate Uchiha bastard." He pauses. "But I'm not so sure anymore."

My ribs hurt. Something inside them jumps feebly.

"Why're you holding back?" Ikkyun continues. _"What_ are you holding back?"

When I don't answer, the Sarutobi snorts. "Not that I care," he mumbles.

I can't really, either. Not right now. I'm almost ready to fall asleep when the old man's voice again floats over. This time with a final question.

"Who are you, really?"

In good conscience, I don't want to lie to him.

I pretend to be asleep. It's easy.

Because, in seconds, my heavy lids sag and I really do drift away.

* * *

Bureaucracy is scarier than any weapon.

After being shuffled around and ignored for the better part of two days, my itinerary is confirmed by Ikkyun. In an instant, I'm ushered into the special expanded garrison quarters to march with the last wave of soldiers this evening. No courtesy goodbyes. No outside contact _at all._ I get measured for the same armored plates as the rest, and the heavy metal plates are as impractical as they are camouflaging. To the casual gaze, I'm just another infantry.

 _Good._ Anonymity suits me now. No pun intended. The only thing that is not good about this arrangement is that I'm in Sarutobi Soujiro's special unit. I know Ikkyun (staying behind) has told his cousin to keep an eye on me. Since Soujiro's the unit commander of about three hundred soldiers, he's too busy (important) to personally oversee me. But I know he's smart enough to delegate the task. Naki and Kouki, also in the unit as squad commanders in charge of fifty people each, are prime candidates.

As I watch the large Ueno gates open for our exiting infantry line, I wonder about Hashirama. Surely they'd let him sober up, now that the final soldiers have left. The relationship between Senju Butsuma and his eldest son is not for me to pry into. The power Senju Butsuma wields is enormous. More than a kage, over his shinobi.

 _Was it this power that put Itama in harm's way?_ I bite my lip and march forward. Even if we march through the night, it doesn't feel fast enough.

My row of soldiers has just passed the double doors when a voice shouts over the clanking of metal.

"Good luck!"

I turn.

"Good luck and thank you, Miss Mirror!"

The other soldiers jostle each other, murmuring at the disturbance. As the midget of my unit, I'm obliged to jump and stretch my neck in the best giraffe impression I can muster. _There, by the gate tunnel._ He doesn't look like Murata, nor like himself, but I recognize those waving arms and smile. And if his beaming countenance looks a little watery, a little worried, I know it's because he's wishing me luck on finding his younger brother.

"I'll protect everyone in this village—!"

So Hashirama's not forgotten my words to him, on our walk through the garden on the night of my birthday.

"—So you go kick butt at the border!"

Smiling, I duck my head.

 _No, thank you, Hashirama._

 _For showing me_ _my childhood image of the Shodaime wasn't off the mark after all._

* * *

By the next morning some of the soldiers are ready to drop from exhaustion. Hashirama may have recruited enough people, but it's experience that was arguably sacrificed. Complaints of aching feet and empty stomachs course through the ranks. Others start subtle competitions of strength, boasting of fighting skills. There are rumored to be a few ninja and samurai mixed into the marching troops, but I haven't seen any in my unit beyond Naki and Kouki, and even then those two are not regular infantry.

Being quite new, the soldiers in my unit don't recognize me, so I don't divulge anything of substance. If I get a strange look or two from some of them, I just try to stand straighter and look away. Since my glasses attract particular attention, I've tucked them away when we're just marching in a cluster over even terrain. Vision hardly matters: I'm so short in comparison, I usually just get squeezed from all sides and jostled along.

It's in one of the cluster marches that someone taps me on the shoulder.

"Oh! Naki."

Naki beams. "You can tell it's me?" He probably means that I can tell it's him, not his twin, but the Yamanaka's also changed out of his normal clothes into traveling garb, less conspicuous and blending better with the other foot soldiers. His eyes train on me, conspiratorial. "I can't say I'm entirely unhappy you're marching with us after all."

"Thanks?" I say, as I make some room for the blond to sidle beside me. "I'm glad you're here too."

This widens his smile further. "Kouki would've come said hi too, but he's shy."

"Really?" I snort.

"Yup. Doesn't know how to talk to girls. Maybe you can help him spread his wings a bit."

"No thanks."

"Aw!" Naki pretends to look wounded at the quick refusal. "He doesn't hate you, I promise!"

"You make excuses for your brother quite a lot," I laugh. "You two must be close."

"He's kept me on the moral path." Naki's grin turns mischevious. "I meant it when I said you're like him. You both do things because you think they're right."

"What about you?" I ask.

Naki's hand does an airy wave. "I do whatever's fun. That's why I'm here."

"You mean, as in not with your own squad?" He's shirking his duty as a squad commander to hang out with me.

"Here, as in going to war," he chirps, before weaving through the crowd, presumably back to his own squad.

Naki's idea of fun is a worldview that feels leagues away from mine. Maybe once, I had thought battle was fun. Fighting was fun. Competing, and winning, was fun. But things had been different then. The stakes had been different. Even so, I'm no pacifist. Battle is part of me.

Ikkyun's words yesterday suddenly float back to me. _Have I been holding back?_

My own squad commander is an amiable man in his twenties named Makino. After two days of marching, the soldiers have a nickname for him: Lovely Maki. Between telling us stories of his fiancée—who, by his accounts, is one step short of a divine goddess—Maki makes a valiant effort to build morale in the younger soldiers. I notice he looks my way a lot, in a fairly pitying way. "Any questions, just ask!" he peppers between commands. The last mile we pass are difficult bogs. Not nearly as bad as my trek to Aida during the rain, but still damp and sucking the troops' energy with every squelching step. "There's a benefit to this!" crows the squad commander. "Our camp is better protected against enemies!"

He's right, but the bog isn't the only fortification. When we pass the muddy terrain, we're greeted with the sight of a towering wall. The structure is at least eighty feet tall. I'd heard we were joining the camp from the back, away from the main battleground. This seems a bit strange, if not plain inconvenient. What's even stranger is that the wall gleams translucent under the sunlight. I can make out shapes of banners of tents behind it. We march closer, and I realize the wall only stretches to the back of the camp, and not the front. Seems like a backwards sort of war tactic.

We're nearly to the wall and the camp when a tremor shakes the earth.

"Don't be alarmed!" calls Maki. "It's a messenger from our side."

Craning my neck is going to develop rickets. I settle in to wait surrounded my my taller comrades. But when I hear the familiar voice, my stomach drops.

"Halt! Come along this other side. We're in the process of moving the camp."

 _Is the air suddenly colder, or is it just that I recognize the voice's owner?_

My hands shove aside the soldiers in my way before I can think properly. As I finally squeeze through people to the end of the line, I see the figure, his back turned to me, but his white hair unmistakable.

 _Tobirama._

Better to not have him recognize me here. I try to fall back into the middle of the pack, but one of the soldiers I'd bulldozed aside is one of the more sensitive eager-beavers. My row often marches to the tune of tales of his prowess. He's everything I'm not: tall, intimidating at sight. Thus, he can't overlook a scrawny teenage girl pushing him away like a flimsy curtain.

A fist closes around the back of my collar and drags me against his thick plate of armor. I don't make a sound as I'm slammed against the metal. But the other soldier is loud. I feel myself lifted off my feet.

"Who're you? Stop trying to cover your sissy face!" the man shouts.

"Order!" chides Maki, hands fluttering about and looking increasingly harried.

Decisions, decisions. Do I remove my hands from my face, and twist the soldier's arm away from my collar? That way, I can dive back into the rank and file. But then, I'll expose my face. Bad idea, in case we've caught Tobirama's attention.

Too late.

Tobirama's voice rings out.

"Allies don't fight each other. Save that energy for the enemy."

From what I saw at the tower, Tobirama's an orderly guy. Figures he can't resist butting in here. I glance at the speaker from between my fingers. Tobirama's eyes are hard rubies narrowed in distaste. They're lazered at us. I watch them widen as he scans the scene, and then my face.

 _He recognizes me._

Well, the harm's already done. I let my hands drop from my cheeks. Then, in a fluid motion, the soldier who was holding me a second ago finds his face in the mud. Shocked looks grace every face in my squad, as they hush. In the distance, I see the other squads peering over curiously. Maki looks ready to faint. Tobirama looks livid.

I sigh, then put my hands up in the timeless gesture for surrender.

"I'm on your side." I smile weakly. "And allies don't fight each other, right?"

.

.

.

 _tbc_

.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu:_ Naki is the original Yamanaka playboy. Sarutobi Clan sake is not for lightweights. Ikkyun's on to something. And Butsuma is mean. That's kinda the gist of this transition-y chapter.

Thank you so much to every reader. Your comments are inspiring. Next update won't take as long, provided real life cooperates. It will be a bit more fighting before the next arc switches tempo.

Beta-ing for myself takes eons. What's the least creepy way to ask someone to beta on the FF .net beta thing? I aspire to live a life within tolerable levels of creepiness.


	8. lacquer 4

_Suzu: balancing the tone of the era on a tightrope. Gets brighter, promise.  
_

* * *

.

.

.

No sooner do the words leave my mouth, then a sharp impact at my side rattles armor and bone. Air exits my lungs, and I crumple, wheezing. On my second cough, a breeze tickles my ear, ghosts over my nape. Something wet and warm trickles down my neck.

The first droplet falls.

Then, the second.

Rain paints the grass between my fingers a brilliant _red—_

My hands clap to my neck.

 _Pressure._

Breathe! Think! Ringing, in my ears. More sounds. Shouts. _Apply pressure._ My fingers are slick with warm blood. _More pressure._ _Find the airway. Reconstruct that first._

 _Chakra._

 _More chakra_

 _More—_

Ringing swells and fades, overlays scuffling, clanking metal. Something tickles my cheek. I realize I'm curled in a ball, half my face in the grass, hands clutching my neck. I picture the carotid and dorsal scapular arteries, jugular and subclavian veins, cricoid cartilage, sternocleidomastoid, stemothyroid. On and on and on. Every muscle, capillary, nerve ending.

 _Breathe._

 _In._

 _Out._

It gets easier.

When I open my eyes again, the world is blurred and askew. My slick fingers right my glasses. My vision comes away red at the edges, but clearer than before.

Naki stands above me, panting. His arms are spread as if to cover me.

Then there's Tobirama, a few steps away, his kunai bared and slick with fresh blood. Mine.

On the ground stretches an unnatural shadow, tethering Tobirama to the crowd of soldiers. Soujiro's horse is dismounted. In the back, Soujiro stands with an unnatural pallor over his stern features. Kouki's nearby, jaw unhinged. The soldier who picked a fight with me is stumbling up, as the rest of my squad nearly step over each other to get a peek.

Soujiro speaks.

"What do you think you're doing, Young Master Senju?"

Tobirama bristles, a white-furred wolf with fangs out. "What does it look like?"

"It _looks_ like you're trying to kill one of my soldiers," says Soujiro, impossibly calm. "But that can't be right."

"I'm eliminating a _threat._ An Uchiha needs no more than an instant to kill us all."

Muttering starts anew among the troops. Countless eyes shift to me. I swipe at the blood on my hands and clothes in an effort to clean up. Color returns to Soujiro's face.

"She's been with us for more than an instant. And as you can see, we are all very much alive."

"She's an _Uchiha spy_ ," retorts Tobirama. "Now that she's at our base she has what she needs."

"I assure you, her spying would have been far more fruitful if she'd stayed where she was last, instead of marching out to these wastelands."

I'm being defended. Pride rages inside, irrational, protesting protection. _You're all idiots. Quit fighting._ _I haven't forgotten the Uchiha fiasco at Aida. I'll show you real killing intent._ Amidst such a messy chorus, I can't find my voice. Shakily, my knees creak up.

A hand reaches for mine. Naki. His blue eyes meet me, and I find not the fear in others', but worry. _Concern._

"You okay?" Naki's feather-light fingers flutter to my throat. "That's a lot of blood. Good thing he missed your jugular."

I don't correct his assumption.

"Quick, let's get you to the camp." He slings my arm over his shoulder. "There'll be healers to patch you up."

Awkwardly, we amble in the direction of the camp, Naki supporting my weight. His body stiffens against mine as we circumnavigate Tobirama, who remains as still as a tree. There's no energy left in me to look back and check if Tobirama's still under the shadow bind. All I know is that the rumors will be fierce tonight. An entire army has witnessed this event.

No more assassination attempts in broad daylight. For now.

Bad blood between the Senju and Uchiha is thick. Thicker than I imagined. But for some reason, it's not the thought of Tobirama that now scares me. Rather, it's what Madara and Izuna will think, if the Senju ever truly accept me.

* * *

It's the Tsunade effect.

Medical jutsu in this era is a far cry from mine. Textbooks across the Five Great Nations have anywhere from blurbs to chapters devoted to the Godaime's revolutionary medical practices, in field and operating room. And I'm not alone in saying that Mama further progressed the field. I can't quickly catch up to modern times, but I can begin to identify which scientific foundations are spotty. Groggily, I make mental checklists of the equipment in the tent, diagnostics routines, sanitation.

These observations transpire in the second half-hour in the small medic tent. The first half-hour was devoted to kicking out a fussing Naki, calming down the resident medic, and then lying with my eyes closed on a wooden recliner—trying to coax back sanity.

My medic is a marvel to look at, barely past four feet, with skin like a fine-lined plum and silvery hair piled in an enormous bun the size of her head. Her longevity inspires confidence in her skills.

"Sure you don't want me to patch the skin?"

I smile weakly. "It'll heal on its own."

Confidence aside, I want to heal myself. The foreign chakra on my partially-closed wound, while serviceable and warm, is comparable to yarn stitches, rather than the fine-tuned needlework that is my era's standard. Well, Konoha Hospital's standard. It's not just vanity—imagine a coiling scar around my throat. What would I say if Itama asks? Or Hashirama? _Yes, your brother nearly killed me. Good golly, he's fast! He must be skilled at assassinations!  
_

Next, armor and cloth are peeled away to reveal dark mottled skin at my side. She clucks at it: I'll stay a night on the recliner, to check for broken bone underneath. I hypothesize a hairline fracture on my third left rib. But best not run a diagnostic now. Pain, I can endure. Secrets, I'll keep a little longer.

"What's a thing like you doing in a daimyo's army?" she tuts, unfurling bandages. "You should be starting a family. Why, that boy who brought you in was pretty easy on the eyes. If _I_ were five years younger, I would…"

I will myself to be momentarily deaf.

"Too skinny," she tuts as I tune back in at a pinch to my forearm. "Joining the army's one thing. Fighting _here_ is a whole 'nother."

Another sharp pinch, this time to the other arm. Zoning out is easier with painkillers, but this era doesn't stock this luxury.

"Well, at least with this, you're not likely to get nominated."

Eventually, my wandering eyes and brain land on some familiar shoes below the tent flap near the door.

"Excuse me, may I enter?" calls a distinct male voice.

Soujiro—relieved of his fancy commander cloak and armor—ducks into the tent. He's twice as tall as the medic as she offers a polite bow. Soujiro's eyebrow shoots up as he sidles by the recliner and stares down at my part-mummified self. Blinking up, I ponder how to recreate Hashirama's piteous look.

At my face, the commander clears his throat. "Comfortable?"

"Hn."

"Still hurts?"

"Hn."

" _Never_ have I seen her so well-behaved!" Soujiro exclaims as he turns to the medic. "You have performed a miracle, my dear lady."

The medic's fluttering eyelashes are a bit wispy with age, but the overall effect is there. "Oh, call me _Megumi, Commander_."

Soujiro goes a bit pale and alarmed, but the seasoned shinobi takes all things in stride as he asks for privacy. Megumi gives another simper, then obliges. Once Megumi's sashayed from the tent, Soujiro turns his attention to me, his eyes scanning me and lingering on the bandages. Disapproval radiates from the commander, as if _I_ were to blame for all this.

"There's another recliner over there if you wanna play hooky," I deadpan.

"Hooky?" He frowns, then sighs. "Can't. In case an injury's brought in. Sasuke'd have a _conniption_ if I got demoted for being an ass to my soldiers."

"You already are."

His face twists, then grows serious. "I owe you an apology. Naki apologized, but a teacher can't ride on his student's coattails."

 _Huh._ With my throbbing neck and the way my chest squeezes, I can only face forward. Literally and metaphorically. "You're better than Naki," I sigh. "I had to kick him out just now, 'cause Megumi wouldn't do it. Soldiers in his squad still haven't seen his face, you know. Maki my squad commander keeps getting confused floaters from Naki's squad."

"Well, you're free of that kid tonight. We've chained him to his squad. At the new camp."

"About the move—"

"You're safe here for now," Soujiro cuts in. "Senju Butsuma and his convoy are also at the new location."

Confusion, anger, and yes, fear, wash over and derail me. "Why? Why should the Senju pose a threat? I'm not an Uchiha spy! I've severed ties! I'm here to look for _Senju_ Itama!"

"You're not from around here, are you?" His finger gives my glasses lens a tap. I flinch despite myself. "Physical traits indicate Uchiha. Yet, something doesn't _fit."_

"Your opinion."

"My _opinion_ used to be that you're the daughter of a clan defector. But Uchiha defectors live harrowing lives. On the run. Usually blind. You don't exhibit the baggage of having come from _that_ , even if you are a strange one."

"My past... isn't worth knowing."

"No one is a good self-evaluator," he hums. "Maybe I should torture you for information."

" _Excuse me."_ My voice soars an octave. "We're _allies?"_

"You tell me."

But Soujiro looks apologetic. Proof that there's a first for everything.

"The ally of my friend is my ally," I grumble. Admittedly, the actual saying is different. _The enemy of my enemy is my friend._ Though—as I constantly remind myself—I have no real enemies besides the Otsutsuki. It pains me to admit this, but in this era, having no real enemies also makes my alliances flimsier.

Soujiro flashes a grin, wide and sly. "So you consider Hashirama a friend?"

"I never said—"

"Not that I care," he says. "I will find out the truth about you. And when I do, if it's not something I like..." He stills, eyes hooded. "Well, I've offered you the courtesy of a warning."

 _"Wow,"_ I say with a scoffing laugh. "A warning makes this all better."

Soujiro laughs too, not unkindly. "Besides Itama, why are you here, Sarada?"

"To fight."

"This doesn't have to be your war. Furthermore, some might say you're on the wrong side."

I close my eyes. Naki's words refrain in my head.

 _'Have you ever done something because you want to? Not because it's the right thing.'_

 _Yes_ , I tell myself. But honestly, I can't remember the last time I have.

Soujiro continues. "I've done everything I can think of to keep you away, keep you alive. But you're an admirably hard worker, despite being the most ignorant kunoichi I've ever met."

"Ignorance is _my_ business," I scowl. "Or are you suggesting that girls should go make babies like Megumi said?"

This truly alarms the middle-aged man. "Certainly not," he mutters. "My mother's been on my case about making a family for ages. But I know what women are like." He shudders. "No thanks. Cousin Sasuke can carry on the Sarutobi legacy. His wife's seven months pregnant, so that fetus has got enough time to figure out what makes women tick."

I can't help it. Laughter bubbles up.

It spills over, uninhibited, until something hot and wet leaks onto my face. Beyond nostalgia for Nara family tics, these words give me strength. Because even if I'm not here with my friends, these are the seeds to be sown, for their future. A pang seizes my chest. At first I think it's the bruise at my side, but then I think of spinning red eyes and stoic spiky-haired ghosts. Yes. I want to protect my ancestry, too.

Footsteps scuff outside the tent.

At first I think that Megumi's back.

But the silhouette on the other side of the tent door is as familiar as it's _unwelcome._

Tobirama doesn't request entry as he strides in with large steps, a bundle of fabric in his arms. I stiffen. My first thought is that I'll be tied up again with ropes. Instead he beelines toward Soujiro, and deposits the bundle into the Sarutobi's arms. There's no acknowledgement, as he stands there for several awkward seconds.

Then:

"It will be cold tonight," Tobirama says, voice monotonous, expression blank.

Something snaps in me.

 **" _Get out."_**

Soujiro turns. "Sara—"

"I said _get out_. Both of you!"

Tobirama doesn't wait to oblige. The musty air inside the tent swirls with his brisk exit. Soujiro looks between me and the door, and heaves a sigh. A soft sensation tickles my right arm as it's swathed in something soft and shaggy: the blankets.

"You've lost blood. Stay warm tonight," says Soujiro. "If not for yourself, then for Ueno. For victory." Then he too walks out of the tent.

Maybe I'm like a vessel, being filled.

And now that I've topped off the brim, now that no one's here to watch, I _overflow_. My arms fly to shield my face, as rattling breaths and tears spill onto the recliner's fabric lining.

 _Why_ are _you here, Sarada?_

* * *

Megumi makes no mention of the suspicious salty trails along my cheeks. Bless her, the old woman merely tells me to roll to one side so she can check on the bandages. Just as she finishes, she notices the new blankets tucked into the crook of my arm, dangling from the recliner.

"So it's scheduled for tonight," she hums mysteriously.

"What is?"

"The frost."

"It's spring." _Almost summer._

"This frost's unnatural," she says, hair bun bobbing. "Did you see anything unusual when you marched here?"

Did I? I was disoriented when Naki towed me inside the camp. I'd felt cold, which I had partly attributed to blood loss. We never got close to the wall wrapping the camp, but I recall its translucent, slick appearance.

"The wall. Is that _ice_?"

"Indeed, it's an ice wall," she nods. "The enemy can control ice and snow. We've had to move camp twice now. Once the ice wall gets tall enough, and wraps around the whole camp, the enemy hide inside it."

"Inside the ice?" I echo. "Have you seen it happen?"

"No one has. No one alive," says Megumi. "So we take precautions. We relocate before the ice gets too high, even if it takes several days to move. This time, too. We've moved three quarters of the camp. Us remainders gotta stick it out with more layers for tonight."

"Then this 'frost' builds up the wall," I marvel. "A weather jutsu."

"You've got brains inside of that pretty head," smiles Megumi. "Like my granddaughter. Such a shame to waste. Y'know, I've a grandnephew of marriageable age, well off, owns a wood sculpting business..."

Other thoughts crowd out the grandnephew's commercial talents. What Naki said about this war involving 'the best of the best' seems to have some truth. Fire territory's side is an amalgam of clans, including the Senju. Maybe allies from the battle at the tower are here as well. As for the other side with foreign daimyo, they have the Uchiha. And now, I know there are also ice specialists. Rather than scare me, my blood pumps quicker.

Evening settles. The other remaining healers have assigned beds in warmer communal quarters. Before she leaves, Megumi brews what tastes like strong black tea. When I'm alone, I heal my wounds completely, knitting together bone, stimulating new skin to patch over the remaining neck wound, and finally, in my marrow, replenishing red blood cells to a safe threshold. I press my hand to my forehead, almost to the hairline, as I assess what chakra stores I have left.

Blankets cocooned tight, I lie on my recliner, thinking of the work to be done in the morning. Eventually, I fall asleep to the sound of the storm outside.

I can't remember if I dream.

But when I wake, there's a memory caught in my throat. A good one.

 _Why are you here?  
_

"Bonds."

* * *

The syllable issues white plumes into the air. Instinctively, I curl into my blankets. _No sniffle._ The only discomfort is the gnaw of my empty stomach, more acute now that I'm healed. My legs swing over the makeshift bed, and I shuffle around the small tent, blankets draped over my shoulders, searching for food. I come across a small bronze hand mirror on a counter.

For the first time in a while, my own face stares back in perfect detail. When I was a young girl, Mama would praise my bright skin and dark shiny hair. The person in the mirror has my face. She has my coloring. She also looks like a ghost, with gaunt, bloodless features. With a clatter, I drop the mirror.

 _This ghost can still find Itama._

 _This ghost can, and will, do lots of things._

Unlike actual ghosts, I need food. There's more tea from last night, now icy cold. I drink it anyways. It's oddly invigorating. When I find nothing else edible, I stuff a blanket inside my armor, then wrap another around my shoulders.

 _Now, to venture outside._

Is it really late spring? A sheet of perfect snow crystals dusts the dirt and grass in frosty white. Icy patches stretch over the uniform tan-colored tents, gleaming like mirrors under the clear morning light. The small tent units scatter out for hundreds of yards in each direction. With the snow, it's like a quaint little village, not a war camp. My eyes drift up toward the horizon. The ice wall has wound further around, nearly sheathing the camp in an oblong circular shape.

I'll worry about that later. Gorgeous smells waft from several tents nearby, and my hollow midsection pinches. I tromp up to the largest tent, where a particularly promising scent drifts out.

My hunch—or my nose—is spot on.

 _The mess hall!_ Enormous vats of steaming stew are served via assembly line. At the procession's end, there's hunks of warm steamed bread. The line snakes to the opposite wall and back, bordering tables and benches where people are shoveling food down at varying speeds.

"Sarada!"

I'm scooped into a tight hug. Then quickly deposited.

"Oops!" Naki's eyes twinkle as he surveys me. "Shouldn't crush the injured."

"Not _that_ injured," I frown. But I can't help but mirror his grin as I peel back the blanket-scarf to reveal a smaller poultice I'd made, purely for show so Megumi leaves it alone. "Don't worry. I'm made of Teflon."

"Teflon, oh teflon!" Naki serenades. "Er, what's teflon?"

"Means I don't go down easy." My stomach picks this moment to rumble beseechingly.

"A survivor," he beams. "You hungry?"

If I open my mouth now drool will come out. I nod.

Waiting in line is almost nice with a chattering Naki beside me. He tells me that the new camp is still being set up, so many came back here to eat. I'm grateful for company. However, Naki's colorful clothes stick out in a sea of dark, muted armor, though there are others mixed in who don't look part of regular infantry. Maybe shinobi.

We've just collected our soup and bread when an argument breaks out at one of the tables. My appetite wanes at the sight of a man nearly identical to the one beside me. Kouki's splayed on the floor, a damp spot and an empty bowl beside him. A tall, built figure towers over him. I realize belatedly that it's a woman. She looks around her twenties, the twins' age, with chestnut brown hair, pulled into a ponytail.

"You think being a pretty boy entitles you to food?" I hear her say.

Naki vigorously shakes his head at me as I deposit my food on a neighboring bench. Before I can reconsider, I'm marching over and picking up Kouki's fallen bowl.

"You spilled?" I ask. The sour-faced twin says nothing, eyes downcast.

A female voice crows from behind. "No, though he was stupid enough to leave it unattended. Spoiled brat like him doesn't realize even scraps must be defended."

"You shouldn't fight with food," I murmur, standing to face her. I barely come up to her shoulder, but she's taken aback. It can't be my terrifying appearance: neck bandages, blanket scarves, and all.

"You're that girl from yesterday!"

 _She recognizes me?_ "Are you part of Ueno contingent?" I ask.

Her russet eyes narrow. "Hah! No, I'm a kunoichi from the Akimichi Clan. I'm sure you've heard of it."

My hand nearly drops the bowl.

"Yes."

"Good," she glowers. "Then you know to butt out of our business."

The Akimichi and the Yamanaka are historically friends. Famed allies. I'm about to retort when a tug at my elbow steers me away. I turn, and see the ice-blue eyes and fair hair. My first thought is Naki. But it's not.

"Stop," Kouki mutters. Swelling mars his cheek. "S'my fault."

My midsection burns as I turn again. This time, I see Naki, out of the corner of my eye. He's making some sort of escape signal from the far corner of the tent. _An entire mess hall's worth of eyes is not worth it_ , he seems to say. Then, frantically, he points to the entrance. Just in time for me to see a white head bob into the hall.

I turn back to Kouki.

"We aren't friends. But if there's anything wrong, you should say so. I wouldn't mind if you owed me a debt."

Footsteps heavy, I walk away to have my first proper meal in what feels like forever.

* * *

New soldiers are quickly assigned positions, so I toe the line between pretending to be injured and actually being branded an invalid. When my first bright yellow assignment scroll is delivered, relief floods me. It's nice to be authorized to do something besides running around, trying to eavesdrop on other peoples' tasks (though, this last part wasn't exactly authorized). Inside the scroll is my shiny new job:

Patrol.

Not the world's most _illustrious_ job. But compared to tasks like this era's 'hands on' version of janitorial work, _preferable._ Patrol's urgently needed, too. The remaining parts of camp need to move safely to the new location. Patrols make sure no enemy sabotage the move. The largest, most expensive equipment and resources are usually moved last, so this is especially important.

"But why do I have to go with _you?"_

Soujiro takes no offense as he continues his steady pace, whilst chewing lazily on a piece of dried jerky. _Protein._ Commanders get all the nice stuff.

"Trust me, it's a good gig," he drawls. Then, as if reading my thoughts, he produces from his pouch a generous strip wrapped in tissue. Saliva fills my mouth. I think he's popping the jerky into his own mouth, but then his hand changes trajectory.

"Mmmphhh."

Protest dies as I chew. _Tough. Salty. Delicious._ My eyes must still be distrustful, though, because humor lines crinkle his face.

"Be a good girl and eat. I prefer my soldiers not be blown away by the wind."

Eyebrow up, I obey. Once the jerky sits happily in my stomach, I stick out my palm. "One's not gonna cut it, then, Commander."

Now _his_ eyebrow rises. Still, Soujiro obliges, and I let myself be fed again.

"I think I've tamed a shrew," he laughs. "Or a chipmunk."

Mouths full, we walk on in silence, tracing the steps to the new camp's location.

"By the way, any leads on young Itama?" Soujiro asks.

"Barely." Most those left behind in the old camp haven't even fought, never mind been on the front lines where Itama was reportedly last seen.

"Have you tried asking Tobirama?"

"Do I have a death wish?" I quip. "You're supposed to be the smart one."

"True. But you can't avoid him forever. Especially if you're going to rescue a family member."

"According to him, I'm lying."

"That may have changed. I told Tobirama your story." Then Soujiro chuckles as if reliving an amusing memory. "I've never seen anyone clam up like that. I thought he was gonna pass out from not breathing."

"That was before the blanket delivery?"

"Yes. The Senju hate owing anyone. They have a strong sense of justice. Tobirama wouldn't have lived it down if you died from frostbite after you lost so much blood." Soujiro sighs. "He may look calm, but he's just as hotheaded as Hashirama."

Toughest thing I've had to digest today.

"Actually," Soujiro adds nonchalantly. "I have an ulterior motive for assigning you patrol duty with me."

 _To make sure I don't get up to mischief? Don't get killed by any Senju?_ _Don't defect to the Uchiha?_ A whole host of ideas enter my head. None seem quite right.

"The healer ran a final check on you after breakfast," Soujiro continues. "She told me what condition the neck wound was in when she saw it. Seems to me that you have some medical skill of your own."

"Paltry stuff," I say. This is true. Compared to Mama. "Simple patch jobs."

The commander surveys me. "That was no happy accident that you survived. I've never heard of anyone healing a cut that quickly. Not to mention, on oneself." His gaze focuses on my neck. "I saw what happened that day. Tobirama's speed and precision are legendary. You would have bled out in under a minute.

"Why keep so many secrets?" he finishes.

"It's not—" My dry mouth stems from more than jerky. "It's just small tricks." I'm rambling. He knows it.

His expression softens. "Healers are the difference between winning and losing wars."

"Then... in return," I blurt. "Help me find Itama."

"Quid pro quo. Exactly the answer I was looking for." Soujiro pats my shoulder. "Rest assured, I'll send you anyone who could have leads."

* * *

After the rest of camp moved smoothly, I'm reassigned as a healer. The quaint winter village has again become a giant sprawl, impressive in both numbers and diversity of participants. I often spot ninja, interspersed among soldiers. It isn't always written on the face. But you can often tell when someone regularly uses chakra. Or regularly shaves with kunai.

Healer tents are spread throughout the camp. I'm the only healer in my small tent, like Megumi was in hers. While a patrol job had benefits, surveying the terrain, asking for news of Itama, the privacy of a small tent is soothing. It also exposes me to new aspects of this era.

When I'd asked Soujiro what I should do to be certified for medic work, he'd given me a funny look. Still, it's obvious I'm treated as an 'untested' healer. I get funneled physical bumps and bruises. There's a been a lull in mass-scale fighting in the three days I've been here, so not many serious cases get sent my way. The worst is a burn victim who'd spilled a vat's worth of boiling broth on his legs. He's delirious from pain, and I'm bored, so I draw a seal to prompt his skin cells to regrow.

News spreads fast in a war camp.

All sorts of burn injuries get sent my way in the following days. Not just physical burns. Ones caused by special jutsu. I stretch myself, for Soujiro and my quid pro quo arrangement. _'You could do this as a profession if you wanted,'_ Mama had said before. _'You're talented enough.'_ But potential is not a substitute for actual skill and experience. Every new patient that comes in, I worry that this case will be the one that's beyond me. One morning, Soujiro finally comes in person. I think he's bringing someone with clues to Itama, but then I see an unconscious Kouki slung in his arms.

"Time to earn your certification."

"That's no mere cut—" I start.

 _"What else can you do?"_ Soujiro's eyes blaze. It's not a question. It's an order from my commanding officer.

"Other healers—"

"All busy with higher ranked officials."

Even as I meter protests, my body moves on its own, depositing Kouki's prone figure on the recliner. Ugly red lacerations plunge down from his collar to his lung. The more encrusted blood I wipe from the site, the more afraid I become.

"D-Deep," I hiss.

"Will he live?" someone asks. I'd missed Naki entering the tent. Saying he looks worse for wear is an understatement. There's no attention I can spare, though. I need to heal Kouki, and fast. My hands glow with green chakra, and Soujiro, beside me, goes very still. There's a reason he didn't bring Kouki to another healer beyond hierarchy: foolishness.

There's no pulse.

"I haven't done this in a while." A spark travels from my palm, circling my wrists, tingling up my arm. More sparks. _Chi-chi-chi-chi_ crackles fill the air. My hands press to Kouki's chest, right over his heart, and pump.

Seconds drag by.

Breathing restarts.

"If his wounds are this bad, what the hell are normal infantry going through," I mutter, as I move on to knitting tissue. A poor attempt to joke, I know. But I need something to mask the pure relief that courses through my body.

Kouki will live.

It takes a while for Soujiro to find his voice. "A special assignment," he explains, eyes still on his pupil. I recognize this expression, from when he'd looked at me after Tobirama's attack. My heart hurts.

I learn Kouki's squad had a special mission, though I don't get details. It's related to the importance of amassing new territory along the border. That way, we have places to move to, when ice builds up in the current base. The air grows colder from just the thought. This system is unsustainable. But what alternative is there, beyond annihilating the other side, just ending the war?

"Are we looking for those ice users? Moving camp puts us at a huge disadvantage."

Soujiro and Naki exchange alarmed looks.

"Did you tell her?"

"I didn't. Honest, Sensei," says Naki, before he glows. "Sarada just figures things out. She's a tea-flan girl!"

"Teflon," I mutter, wiping sweat from my palms. "And that's not right."

Soujiro considers me anew. "Tea-flan or not, you have many talents. Keep up the good work." The tent door flaps, marking his exit. Clearly his schedule is too hectic to stay. Naki, however, hovers over my shoulder.

"Maybe I'll reconsider letting Kouki spread his wings with you."

My brow furrows. "If you're staying, make yourself useful." I point to the wooden pail in the corner. "I need more water. The snow outside should do."

Naki mock-salutes, and is about to leave when his twin stirs, and cracks open a watery eye.

"D-Don't… leave me… alone with… her. She… might…"

My eyes roll heaven-ward. Even _half-dead_ , Kouki finds energy to suspect me.

"Don't worry," I snap. "I'll kill you when _everyone's_ looking."

Then I stomp out with the pail by myself, leaving two blinking, dumb blonds behind.

As predicted from last night's cold, the ground features a film of fresh snow, easy to pack. It's too early for the sun to warm my skin, so I settle for breathing into my palms, wishing I had a pair of gloves. Anger gives me energy. _These Sengoku era people!_ I'm almost done shoveling snow into the pail with my bare hands when I feel another presence.

 _Speaking of people who'd kill you in plain sight._ Rather than wolf, Tobirama's more Siberian husky in this environment. His hair camouflages in the surroundings. I eye him warily. His own gaze flicks to my pink fingers. Hastily, I stuff my tingling hands behind my back.

His words break the silence like a pick splintering ice.

"I saw Lord Sarutobi pass through with the Yamanaka."

I nod _._

 _Huh._ Soujiro's right. Watching Tobirama's brain short-circuit is oddly reminiscent of his brothers.

"Don't poison him."

Then he leaves, footsteps retracing his prior snowy path.

Belatedly, I realize he never asked where Soujiro went.

* * *

It's three am in the morning, when healers prepare for the next day. Beyond this era calling medics 'healers', I also find out there are different specialties, some requiring more preparation. Megumi happens to be an expert in medicinal salves. I've been assigned to help her at night. Admittedly, after grueling non-stop days, my head dips close to my mortar. Also, my heart's not a hundred percent in the task. The two ingredients I'm grinding now have been scientifically shown to do very little. Well, nothing but placebo.

Megumi's chatter is ubiquitous. "When I was a lass, I had beaus from the entire Fire territory after me. Twins too. Some nearly as handsome as that pretty blond set you got."

"S'nice," I yawn.

Someone enters the tent. My eyelids flutter open. _Messenger._

"Is there a skilled healer here?"

"Two," says Megumi.

"We have an urgent case."

Having patients brought in at odd hours is nothing new. But Megumi's shrunken face turns truly frightening at the sight of the girl on the stretcher that the messenger team brings in. I wince, because the girl's skin is tinged an unnatural shade. Megumi's hands hover over tenderly, diagnosing. I quickly gather some tinder and put them in the makeshift fire pit in the middle of the tent. In my haste to discreetly make a _katon_ , I almost miss the next words out of Megumi's mouth.

"S-So cold. My little Chiharu."

"My?" I turn. There's tears in Megumi's eyes, as she brushes back the still girl's chestnut hair.

"Chiharu. My cousin's youngest daughter."

Strangely, Chiharu seems familiar to me too. "What's wrong with her?" I ask the messenger. "What happened?"

The man shakes his head. "I'm just responsible for transferring her here for treatment. Some patrol ninja found her at the border the enemies cleared this evening. She was a hostage for a while. The enemies seem to have left her behind. Lord Soujiro says to try to wake her up, in case she has intel."

 _So Soujiro kept his promise._

"She's far gone," the old woman rasps. "We can only pray in the face of the Blue Death."

"Hypothermia," I realize.

Twice, I'd traveled to the Land of Snow. Shizune had been team leader, and given us leathery hot water bottles, a massage for spreading warming chakra to our extremities, as well as pills from the Akimichi clan.

 _Pills!_

Shizune had listed ingredients—some of the same ones are in our pile. _Ginseng, cinnamon bark, fennel, thyme, peppercorns._ I dig through the herbs. _What else? Think._ Roasting promotes the _yang_ properties. There's no time to stoke a fire naturally. I stuff herbs in a metal pail and launch a small fireball. Then, channeling chakra, my palm crushes the toasted herbs between my fingers. Fine pieces trickle out when I open my fist. In the center of my palm, there's even fine dust.

"See if she'll swallow," I say, grabbing a bowl and transferring the powder.

Megumi's eyes are wide and trained on me.

My head starts to hurt. I remember the words from Kouki, Tobirama.

" _Please_ trust me," I say to Megumi. "I'm not trying to poison anyone—"

"I know you're not poisoning anyone, child." The old woman swallows thickly. "But how do you know the base recipe for our clan's pills?"

I shake my head to clear the stunned feeling, as I start boiling some water. Megumi my healer is _Akimichi_ Megumi? _I'll unravel Konoha's clans' history later. Not now._ "I learned some herbal medicine from a family friend," I say.

I leave the water to boil as I again lean over the girl. Her entire body's stiff as a board. My hands coat with chakra. It stings a bit, since my palms are freshly singed from the piping hot herbs. But this can't wait. Like Shizune taught, I start massaging from the center to the limbs. As I work, I rattle off instructions.

"Cool the hot water just enough. Yes. Add two scoops. Make sure it's fully dissolved."

A race against time. We're winning.

Chiharu's shallow breathing starts to deepen. The raw flush of her cheeks softens to a rosy gradient.

"What else?" asks Megumi. Determination and something else lights her eyes. "Teach me."

* * *

Megumi sits beside me, tending the fire. There's not much else we can do at this stage. When the tent flap opens again, there's a corner of dawn, outside. Ironically, natural light makes my eyes droop. The tall silhouette standing there comes and sits beside the fire pit. Naki gives a great yawn, then smiles sleepily at me as he gives my arm a squeeze. I wonder if I look as tired as he does.

"More soup," I declare.

'Soup' is just a warm concoction of herbs and salt. It's not exactly intravenous drip solution, but administered orally since there's no tubes here. I stimulate the girl's gut with medical chakra, circulating warm liquid more quickly through her core, then around various blood vessels.

"She's a little dumpling," observes Naki. "She'll survive. We're a lot more in need of soup than she is."

I can't appreciate his abysmal joke. "She's been a hostage. Who knows what the other side fed her."

"Eh," Naki shrugs. "Just trying to calm you down. Don't be such a bleeding heart."

"I'm _not."_

But Naki's right. Being in this tent has brought out a different side of me. One I'd thought was gone. After everything that's happened, it's this small tent and its familiar smells, familiar rules, that tug out the bits of Sarada, from before. A happier, nicer, _better_ person, left behind with the old Konoha. I wonder if she'll be back, when I rebuild the village.

Suddenly, I realize what's familiar about this girl—her nose and forehead are like Chouchou's. As her eyes open, I feel myself smile. She has dark brown orbs, unlike my best friend's golden ones. But she _is_ a cute dumpling.

"Hey there," I say softly. "Want some breakfast?"

Naki groans. But he doesn't get the chance to make another snide comment. The tent flap flings open, to reveal none other than the Akimichi from the mess hall.

"Oh! Chiharu!"

"Oh, Big Sis Haruka!"

"Oh, _great."_

(I glare at Naki.)

The two apparent sisters embrace with tears, then, rapid, fierce chatter which fills the tent with new energy. From appearances, it's hard to imagine they're related. One, short and plump. The other, tall and intimidating. Then there's Megumi—a whole other mold, but with Chouchou's wit. Certainly with Chouchou's craze for handsome men. _Is such a thing hereditary?_ I smile.

"Gotta go," Naki whispers to me. Probably self preservation, given what I've seen between the twins and Haruka. I'm about to let him slip out unnoticed when Haruka's usual frosty gaze lands on us.

" _You!"_

Naki's palms fly up. "Please don't hurt me."

"No, you, the flat-chested runt!"

"... Call me Sarada," I say in my most professional tone.

"You helped Granny?" Akimichi Haruka's eyes are somehow terrifying.

Megumi tuts. "She's a healer with great skill who's saved our Chiharu. Now lay off, Haruka."

"Yeah, lay off, Amazon!" Naki crows, bolstered. "It's not our fault you didn't get chosen to be Soujiro's pupil! Choumei's way nicer than you!"

"Choumei's a pansy of a man. Like you stupid twins."

New light enters Megumi's eyes. "Inonaki?" she exclaims. "You mean you're _that_ baby Naki, all grown up?"

I've been in this era long enough to figure out that clan-related affairs are sensitive. Ino-Shika-Cho disputes are likely none of my business. Since my patient is fine, and my snow bucket is empty, I leave the tent. Fresh air should wake me up. As I walk, I think of questions I want to ask Chiharu. If the young girl was indeed a hostage, maybe she'll have clues about Itama.

I should ask about other things too. Like our enemies. Fresh-fallen snow stings my hands as I scoop. It's clear something needs to be done about the ice. My feet wander further. A wall of ice about twenty feet tall forms a quarter-circle around the camp, about hundred yards long. I walk to my reflection in the ice. Like that girl I saw in the bronze mirror, this person is thin. Unlike that girl, I see eyes staring straight. I recognize this look on myself. This is me when I have a mission.

"Why're you here?"

I whirl.

Natural camouflage again. White on white on white. It's four thirty in the morning, and Tobirama's wrapped only in a thick monochrome haori. I'd have thought Tobirama wore his armor twenty-four-seven. The overall effect is disconcerting. He looks more my age now.

I brandish my pail like a shield. "Water. For my new patient."

"That Akimichi girl," Tobirama acknowledges. "Soujiro said she could have clues about the enemy."

"About _Itama,"_ I rebut. His impassive face flickers at my steely tone. "And the enemy," I add.

Turning away, I trace a finger along the ice wall and give it a tap. Cold, unyielding. My finger holds there. It feels good along my burnt finger pad. I place my whole hand there like a stamp, and draw it away. It's not wet at all. I try again, this time with chakra laced into my hand. My palm comes away slightly wet.

 _It's ice, but not ordinary ice. It's somewhat resistant to heat._

"The wall's climbed again last night," says Tobirama. His eyes never leave the back of my head, as he stands several feet away, stiff posture reflected in the ice wall.

"Say we melt it."

His reflection frowns. "Excuse me?"

"It's ice. Though maybe it would flood," I think aloud. "We could use it as a water supply. Maybe cut it first?"

"It doesn't cut."

 _And yet, it does melt, with the right heated chakra._

"What fire jutsu do you know?" I ask.

"I'm not telling an Uchiha."

 _Does he still think I'm a spy, or does he just resent any Uchiha signature? Probably both._ The spot on my neck tingles. "Listen, I don't care that you don't trust me. But we're losing time and resources because of this ice. Which means less time to find your brother."

No reaction. Every inch of him is unyielding, like this wall.

"What about earth jutsu, to make a trench to collect water?" I hum. "I could try it myself, but punching is not very precise."

Unexpectedly, Tobirama's expression flickers again.

"The girl whose punches crack the earth... You're the one Itama talked about."

I ignore how my chest squeezes. "Do me a favor and dig on the inside." I pick up a twig from the ground and scape a line in the snowy dirt several feet out from the wall. "The trench doesn't need to be deep, just wide enough so people don't stand too close."

Again no response.

But then new footsteps crunch in the snow.

"Go on."

I turn. It's Soujiro, smiling.

"I'm listening."

I look between the two figures. One, stony-faced. The other (whose doubt at Aida is still fresh in my mind), willing to hear what I have to say. My lips tug crookedly.

"Quid pro quo. That means at least three bowls of soup for me, this morning."

"I'll even throw in my last stock of jerky." Soujiro looks amused. "Now, what amazing feat will you perform?"

Grinning, I tap the icy surface with my finger.

"I'm going to burn down this wall."

* * *

Most of the shinobi in our alliance are from clans I don't recognize. Ninja of this era are different, but oddly refreshing. Especially kunoichi. Whereas we worried about what magazines or hair curlers to take on patrol, the concerns of this era center on adequate food, precautions against cold, and weapons maintenance. All pragmatic, necessary things.

"Here. To beautify your sad, stick-figure body."

A small paper pouch sails through the air. I catch it before whatever's inside seasons my breakfast, then look to the sender. It's Akimichi Haruka, looking plumper than last I saw her, but no less tall. I point to myself, uncertain.

"Yeah, for you," Haruka sneers. "Unless you _enjoy_ looking like a pre-pubescent boy."

Naki, scarfing his potato roll beside me, scowls ferociously at the Akimichi's retreating back. He watches me unwrap the pouch: there's a small handful of brownish-red pellets. _  
_

"Squirrel poop," Naki pronounces. "That, or food supplements. The Amazon's thanking you for something."

"Pr'bly 'er sister," I say around a spoonful of porridge. "An' st'p c'lling 'er tha'."

Both my hands are ceremoniously scooped up into Naki's.

 _"Be confident, Sarada!_ I love you no matter how flat you are!" the Yamanaka declares passionately. I swipe my hands away before they perform an uppercut into his chin, then gustily down my last dregs of breakfast. Our table mates exchange looks and shrug. Anyone's who's not higher ranking than Naki risks losing something if they comment. It's normal to have a few nuts mixed into the bunch.

The rest of the morning passes slowly.

I'm scheduled to begin my experiment with melting the wall as soon as I receive orders. As this concerns not only Soujiro's unit, but the entire alliance, the plan needs to pass voting at a meeting between commanders—Soujiro's peers, but also those above him. Besides Fire daimyo, I'm told the list includes Senju Butsuma. _If the Senju Clan Head is anything like Tobirama, he'll reject any idea from me._ At least, Soujiro's smart enough to parade the idea off in a more palatable way. Maybe present it as his own solution.

Naki's gone off (was severely ordered) to monitor his squad, so I'm alone in my tent. I don't venture out, in case I receive orders about the wall. Soon, I'm feeling restless. This is a good time to restart meditating. I've largely forgone adding chakra to my seal since my days as a courier. Tobirama's attempt at my has shown me just how necessary it could be, to master Mama and Lady Tsunade's jutsu. Briefly, I wonder if I shouldn't also work on that strange chakra phenomenon that time training with Ikkyun.

A flap of my tent door interrupts my thoughts.

It's Maki, my squad commander, whom I haven't seen since I was reassigned. His usual placid smile is gone, replaced with something unusually frantic.

"Sorry to intrude. I-I've brought a visitor who wanted to see you."

"Who—" The word dies on my lips.

 _Senju Butsuma, in the flesh._

Never have I read or seen depictions in history books. But the clan head's aura is unmistakable. As is the way his cold eyes piece me. I remind myself to make a good impression. It's not Hashirama, but Butsuma, right now, who controls the Senju Clan. Who controls this army. Who, in an attenuated way, could lead to Konoha being formed.

My tone is light. "Tea?"

"Don't bother."

Butsuma's voice reminds me of Hashirama's, but a charismatic commander's tone is harsher in the father. More forceful. Not unlike the late Uchiha Tajima's.

I bring both of my reclining chairs over. Maki sits in one, and, after a tense second, Butsuma sits rigidly in the other. Butsuma's eyes flicker down my throat.

"You're unharmed, I see."

I resist the urge to touch my neck.

"That's good," he continues, in a way that sounds like he means quite the opposite. "Tobirama is often hasty."

I take a deep breath, then get right to the point: "Akimichi Chiharu told me she'd overheard enemies talking about a young Senju boy being held. Just give me the order, and I'll go find him _. Itama_."

Instead of worry or regret, deep loathing settles in Butsuma's eyes.

"You _dare_ speak my son's name."

"Your son and I are _friends."_

"You deceived him."

"You deceive yourself."

Maki looks about to be violently ill. I try to hold in my anger for my nauseous squad commander, but don't succeed entirely. "I dare a lot of things, Lord Senju. But I don't dare lose what few friends I have left. Let me go find him."

Butsuma's eyes still radiate.

"Please," I grit out.

The answer is terse and cryptic: "When the time comes."

Here, Maki interjects, as he jumps from his seat and flits around the tent nervously. "Um, we're here today to talk about the plan concerning the wall, yes? S-Sarada here is in charge of executing Lord Soujiro's plan?"

"Soujiro's plan is fine, but his choice is addled."

"You should know, Uchiha specialize in fire," I mutter. Butsuma jerks a fraction, and I snap back to my senses. "It's an experiment," I say. "I'll try burn the ice wall. That way, we won't have to move camp so often, and waste time and resources."

"What can one person do?" Butsuma growls.

 _Those words._ I smile wryly.

"You know, your son said the exact same thing. Hashirama, I mean."

Thin lips twist. "Hashirama still has much to learn, but I'm glad I don't need to start from the beginning."

My pulse jumps.

"If you don't want tea, then let's go to the wall. I'll show you what one person can do."

* * *

Mitsuki used to get these moods where he'd concoct a plan in the style of his parent. He called it 'playing mad scientist', mostly (Boruto and I thought) to give Konohamaru-sensei the heebie-jeebies. I feel a bit of that mad scientist blood running through my veins right now. The wall directly in front gleams, almost bewitching in the bright afternoon sun. There's almost no natural melting. Under its shadow, a miniature moat has been dug for the long stretch of wall, as far as I can see, with thinner canals that thread into the camp. _Well done, Soujiro._ Astounding progress, for just half a day. If he's an ass of a commanding officer, then at least he's a reliable ass.

"Need any help, Sarada?" pipes my squad commander.

"Thanks, but I'm fine."

My eyes spin to a bright scarlet. They glow in the ice's reflection even from a distance of several feet. Briefly, my heart quakes. Then, Ikkyun's voice floats in my ears. _'Why are you holding back?'_

So I let loose the fires of hell.

In a manner of speaking.

 _Amaterasu_ looks like small embers, but the black, twisting mass eats at the wall at an alarming rate. Maki exclaims behind me in triumph. I don't chance a look, in case I send hellfire toward the silent Senju Butsuma. Heck, it's a possibility. I certainly don't like the guy.

Water gushes in currents down the wall's icy sides, into the man-made trenches, where it sloshes and runs down into thin irrigation canals. I can hardly contain my grin. Mitsuki would be proud.

 _Experiment, success._

"Can I melt all of it now?" I call over to my audience.

Silence. I halt the fire. This is tricky; it takes a particular kind of concentration—like stomping a large fire out with your foot. But I get the hang of it, eventually, and learn to dial down _amaterasu_ 's size. By now, over half the wall has melted, and water continues to seep down.

"Hey! I _said_ , should I keep going?"

Turning, I scan the looks on my audience's faces, several yards away. Butsuma's face is unreadable, but bloodless, haunted. All signs of Maki's previous cheer are gone, replaced with shock. Another figure has joined them. Tobirama's face is as severe as his father's, but he has enough willpower to force himself to nod. Once. So slowly it's like the movement is new to him.

"I'll take that as a yes," I mutter.

Butsuma takes Maki aside. Catching snatches of their conversation is hard from this distance, with Tobirama watching me a hawk. I hear something like "nominate" and "ready." Through the now water-glazed wall, I watch Maki detach from Butsuma and walk toward me. The Senju clan head moves toward his second son. Tobirama's hard eyes turn from his father to me, then back again, almost like question. Butsuma's face gives away nothing. He's not only a warrior, but a hardened statesman. And a private father.

Maki's behind me now. My eyes sting, so I welcome the break.

"What's up?"

My squad commander's face is ashen. Now that he's seen what I can do, I expect no more pitying glances my way, no more small encouragements and offers of assistance directed to the shortest member of his squad. But as Maki's gaze sweeps over me, I can tell he pities me more than ever before. _Why?  
_

"Congratulations," Maki begins, in a voice that's all wrong.

"You've been nominated. You're to ready yourself for duty in two days time, by sunset the second day. The Head Commander Senju Butsuma himself will give you your orders then." Every word is robotic. Like he's reading from something.

Then, a small scroll's slipped into my fingers.

It's not yellow, like task scrolls, but black, sealed with wax at the tip. Maki's speech must be words on a page somewhere. Someone else's words. I stare at my squad commander. I watch the sweat collect on his upper lip. The dull eyes as he looks through me. As if I'm already gone.

My hands move to unfurl the scroll. Maki's fingers stop me. "I told you all that's on there."

Silently, I turn back to finish melting the rest of the ice. There's only a low hedge left. I walk slowly, across the circumference of the wall, mostly to make sure no black fire rages on unsupervised. The two Senju have long left me alone. I don't look for them when I'm finished, as wet puddles squish beneath my every step. I'll be seeing Butsuma soon enough, with a mysterious new mission.

 _I've been nominated._

 _But for what?_

When I arrive back at my tent, there's another two pouches of jerky, along with a note, reading:

 **Good job on the wall.**

 **Butsuma just gave the order for reinforcements.**

 **Hashirama is coming.**

 **\- Soujiro**

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 _tbc_

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* * *

 _Suzu:_ 'Bonds' - this refers to the memory of Naruto telling her that bonds are feelings of love, not history, not blood. And here, Sarada's making 'em. Of course, this'll tie in later.

There's little else to say besides reiterate how gracious, witty, and perceptive you readers are. Thank you. As always, hearing your thoughts makes me break out into dance moves.


	9. lacquer 5

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Morning meditation ends with a cold, wet splat against my cheek. In the corner of my eye dances a jubilant Naki, weaving around slush puddles as he compacts snow in his palms, waiting to fire again. The network of canals on the ground is still frozen from last night's cold. One faulty step and Naki slides, arms windmilling. He lands on the hard dirt, bottom-first, causing a group of youngsters nearby to burst into laughter. They double over as the fallen snow assassin sticks his tongue out at them, then juts his chin out at my approach.

"I heard it was poor taste to play with enemy snow?" I say, amused.

Naki winks. "That was before our tea-flan girl melted the wall."

"You said it." I flatten the snowball I've been discreetly holding into Naki's pretty hair.

Inspired, the younger crowd begin pelting each other with snow. Fancy footwork and rolling maneuvers are evidence that these are not simple kids, but shinobi, impressive even compared to the genin of my era. Different and yet the same as normal children, they laugh and shriek, youth flush upon their pink cheeks.

"Oooh," Naki groans as I hoist him up. "My butt's gonna sting when I put on armor today."

"Ask Megumi for a salve."

"You could kiss it better, healer."

I proffer my fist. (I've adapted.)

"… Will the salve work by afternoon?" Naki laughs, halting.

"Is that when you're headed out?"

"Don't worry about a little skirmish," he returns blithely. "Expect me back before sundown."

But we're both dishonest people, skirting around the truth, ducking into empty spaces like ostriches. Several platoons march today—through sheer numbers, the fighting should stretch longer into the night. As the hostilities continue, unease trickles through camp, like the frozen eddies crisscrossing the ground. They serve a constant reminder of an enemy that only retreats, but never surrenders. As for the other dishonesty, neither Naki or myself mentions that sundown is when I report to Senju Butsuma for my mysterious new mission.

"Just get back _alive."_ I surprise myself with the fire in my voice. "I'll heal you good as new."

Unlike Naki's other smiles, there's something shy and tender about this one. "You too. Stay alive." But before I can turn to leave, he catches my wrist and adds:

"And see Kouki before you go. Please."

My lips purse. What good would seeing Kouki do? If Butsuma wants me to melt a wall, I'll melt a wall. If my commander wants me to jump off a cliff, under military law, I'll jump. And like it. Actually, Kouki might like that too.

"A lot of people don't like Uchiha, remember?" I say. "Your brother, for one."

"People see what they want."

"Naturally." I tug away my wrist.

Naki's voice falters. "But I think you're different, Sarada."

I'm _not_ , though. At least, I don't want to be. Paranoia, heuristics, and fear comprise the shortlist of qualities shinobi need to live to old age. Even then, a hale retirement is no guarantee. Naki should know this. This era should know this. Snow crunching underfoot, I trek back to my tent to clean medical equipment to be organized and sent to other healers. But while I ferociously scrub the last pot, I wonder if I should have thrown more snowballs when I had the chance.

* * *

Soujiro's been watching out for me. That, or Butsuma is keeping me far, far away.

Either way, Senju Butsuma's tent is on the other end of camp, an hour's walk through a garden variety of Fire's territory's 'finest' fighters: leering louts who ask to see the Sharingan, nosy naysayers disparaging my appearance, and pretentious career-types who don't deign to make eye contact at all. Finally, I spot the tent, propped upon a network of bamboo poles like a miniature bunker. Its entrance is replete with armored sentinels who look about as welcoming as frozen fish.

The spacious, furnished interior camouflages the fact that I'm in a war camp. Books, tea sets, and even a dart board clutter the shelves surrounding the padded seats near the entrance. Sitting in this makeshift anteroom is a man in remarkably clean clothes. But not at all the one I'm expecting.

"Shouldn't Senju Butsuma be here?"

The official flicks invisible grime from an immaculate fingernail. In my direction.

"Lord Senju has other things to attend to. Ahem. Shall we begin?"

"Yeah, uh, yes."

"Congratulations. Ahem. You have been nominated for the Kuroha Team, a most high honor…"

Konoha had flowery pre-mission speeches too. After Kakashi-sama retired (fired, gleefully) half the older assignment officers at Hokage Tower, these speeches became a waning tradition. But as a genin, I'd be graced with sincere, if exasperated, lectures targeting the Hokage's son.

"The Kuroha Team is the key to an intelligence-gathering mission of unmatched importance. Ahem. You're to join fourteen other brave, hand-picked shinobi like yourself, and infiltrate our treacherous enemy's hazardous eastern camp."

Between adjectives, I glean that the eastern camp is believed to be where the ice users reside. There is an ice barrier around that camp, which is thought to be roughly a fourth the size of ours, although reports differ. The full range of enemy capabilities within the camp is unknown.

"So it's unknown how many and who we're up against," I recap. "And in the Kuroha Team, there's—"

"Fifteen talented young members."

"Fifteen," I echo.

An airy wave. "Reinforcements will follow."

With more questions, the official's answers flag. No past Kuroha Team has survived their mission. Six out of six Kuroha missions have failed. The expectation I'd felt—wary, but excited—fades into something cold that curls in my stomach.

A phlegmatic sigh. "Any more questions?"

I shake my head. I understand.

This is not a mission I'm meant to survive.

* * *

Folding, unfolding, then refolding the page cannot change the names written on it. This is my team. Soldiers that the alliance is willing to accept—to sacrifice—for victory. There's no clan names I recognize. Nevertheless, my gut carries lead weight. Not because this mission was outside the bounds of expectation. But because I can't figure out how to salvage this situation. _Ask for help_ , a part of me whispers. I stamp it down. But Naki's plea echoes in my ears. _Go see Kouki._ Though, there's hardly anything for me to say. Kouki would sooner whistle a happy tune, that I'm getting my just desserts.

Suddenly, my tent flap lifts to reveal an inky sky framing an uneasy face.

 _Kouki?_ Mystified, I set aside my sheet.

He skirts the shadows of my tent, as if bogeymen will pop out of dark corners. "No patients coming?"

"I'm a healer, not a psychic."

He sits on a recliner's edge, fingering the tassel. His gaze finally glues to my list of names. "That the Kuroha assignment?"

My nod puts an invisible boulder on his shoulders. Kouki's voice is frenetic. "I, ah… I was in the reinforcements. That-that time I—" He gestures to his chest in criss-cross motions. "A hundred of us followed the Kuroha Team. Our orders weren't-weren't to protect them, but to make it back alive with intel."

"Why tell me this?"

Pale eyelashes shadow his cheeks. "I owe you."

The invisible boulder transfers to my shoulders. I recall my prior words at the mess hall. "You don't owe me. Healing you was my job, just like this Kuroha mission." I pause, watching the line of his jaw jump. "Naki said you do things because you think they're right. Well, I healed you because it was right."

The night's sounds magnify ten-fold. I hear an owl, in the distance.

Finally, Kouki speaks.

"When's the mission?"

"Tomorrow noon."

Here, Kouki rises like a storm, arms gesticulating. "If we wait for Hashirama to arrive with troops…! You'd have better reinforcements, and—"

"Making it out alive is not the point." My hand ghosts over the page's names. "My teammates are young. Even younger than me. We're dispensable." My lips tug crookedly. "Plus, Butsuma hates my guts."

Kouki chokes. "Th-this is wrong!"

"No, Butsuma's doing what he thinks is _right_." I stare at my hands, wondering at their steadiness. "It could be an Uchiha thing, but objectively, this mission's rewards are enormous." Kouki doesn't (can't) argue this point. "Tell me about the enemy?" I say.

Shaking, he obliges. "The Kuroha were wiped out so quickly. Reinforcement's job is to observe from further away. See the enemies f-fight the Kuroha." His voice fades like a sigh with no air left. Then, he breathes gustily. "There was an ice wall, around their camp. Like ours, except with a gate. Guys with swords came outta the gate. Others shot senbon from their hands."

"What about ice users?"

Kouki's head is in his hands. "Anywhere, _anyone_ those senbon pierced froze over in minutes."

There's so many masks we wear, as ninja. Kouki's different than the flexible, resilient Naki. I've pegged Kouki as the tough twin, only to find him soft, under his spines, like in those novels Chouchou collected about grouchy bad boys with a heart of gold.

An idea flits to my mind.

 _Masks…_ _people seeing what they want…_ Brain whirling, I blurt:

"Kouki, do I look evil?"

"This a trick question?" he yelps, bewildered. "Like when women ask you to guess their age?"

Before I can reply, the tent door flaps open, and a messenger ducks in. "Excuse me, can you take a burn patient?"

"She's been reassigned—" glares Kouki.

"No," I interject. "Send the patient in."

The messenger looks relieved. "I'll come back to move him to spend the night elsewhere, if it's more convenient."

"Please do," I say. "If I'm going to die tomorrow, I'd rather save one more life." As sputtering sounds start from the twin beside me, I flash a wry smile. " _Jo-king._ I don't plan on dying. I'm a _tea-flan_ girl, right?"

Without further ado, I shoo Kouki off the recliner and I prop up the new patient, a lanky boy with silvery hair. The boy's likely a civilian caught in crossfire today, with potential intel. As my hands hover over, diagnosing, I'm inclined to agree. _These burns._ Heat shouldn't create these marks on his arms. As I work, I feel a laser-like intensity, at the top of my head. Slowly, I look up.

Kouki's quiet, staring at me numbly.

Unnerved, I shove an empty bucket at him. "Closest canal is two tents to the left. Think about your answer as you scoop."

He blinks at me, then takes the bucket. Lifting the tent flap, Kouki murmurs:

"You don't look evil. But you do look like an Uchiha."

A smile stretches across my face.

 _Right answer._

* * *

As Lady Tsunade said in her hangover stupors (hypocritically), a little self-awareness goes a long way. In my time here, I've observed others, but done little observation about the way _others_ see _me_. I've seen now, how the Uchiha are distrusted and feared across Fire territory. But maybe that's not a bad thing, now. It could be the key to the Kuroha team transforming from a sacrifice to an actual weapon.

After the patient's been taken away, I share my plan. At the end, I'm graced with Kouki's feedback.

"The _fuck?"_

"Was I unclear?"

"You just told me to _cut_ you!" Kouki jabs accusingly at the healer's knife I'd set out, as if it were a red hot poker.

I tap my chin. "You're right. A small blade cut wouldn't look convincing. Let's use your sword."

For a guy who supposedly hates me, he sure puts up a fight. "I need to bleed, though, to be convincing," I say. "Not now. Ideally tomorrow, before the mission."

"I-I'm telling Sensei. You're off your fuckin' rocker."

"By all means, tell Soujiro. You'd save me a trip."

The kettle begins to whistle. I attend to it as Kouki storms away. I think hard as I set out Megumi's herbs and teacups. The Kuroha Team may be Butsuma's idea of a worthy sacrifice, but optimization is better. _Fewer casualties_. We don't need a page's worth of sacrifices. Just one can run a successful infiltration.

A mole.

An _Uchiha_ mole.

"A mole?" echoes Soujiro later that night.

"A spy, not the ugly, fat rats with no eyes," says Naki, stating the obvious as he sits cross-legged, nursing a sprained wrist from his mission today. We're gathered around my tent's crackling fire pit, sipping tea, as if sharing a camp story. That is, if Kouki weren't pacing the tent with crazy eyes.

Soujiro sets down his tea. "Another day, another scheme, Sarada?"

"The enemy alliance is loose." I cite the intel Soujiro himself gave me. "Looser than ours. Bad inter-camp communication. Still, everyone knows of the Uchiha, even if they're in a different location. Uchiha are 'scary' and 'evil'." My fingers make air quotes at the words Chiharu's friends use. _Children are honest. Children, and Kouki.  
_

"So your plan is to capitalize on Uchiha infamy."

"Yes."

"And infiltrate the eastern camp by yourself."

"Simply put."

Steam condensates in the cold night air.

"It's crazy." Soujiro fingers rearrange around his teacup. The liquid meniscus inside trembles. "Crazy but brilliant."

Then, Soujiro too begins to pace the length of the tent, features animated, voice staccato'd. "The best guess around camp is that the ice users are those in the eastern camp. But we can't launch a full attack against their ice fortress, so we've made do by luring them out with a nominated sacrifices. But you, Sarada," Soujiro's eyes blaze. " _You_ can melt their wall. You've done it before."

"I'll need backup," I say. "Reinforcements to storm inside the camp after I melt the walls."

"You'll have it," Soujiro paces faster. To. Fro. Repeat. Words tumble out, almost a murmur. "To think, I nearly tore my beard out asking Butsuma to let you off this mission. But this! _This_ turns the _tables."_

My heart soars. Then falls. "You're not worried I'll defect to the Uchiha?"

" _Right!"_ Kouki crows. "You _can't_ go!"

Soujiro's dark pupils glow in the campfire illumination. "My neck's already on the chopping block, if we lose this war. At this point, I may storm into the enemy camp and fetch you back myself if that happens." He scratches his beard, rueful. "Never thought I'd take a page out of Madara's book. How truly bothersome."

I lift my teacup, so rising steam obscures my wet eyes.

Soujiro's account of why Madara went to Aida is off. But to have someone vouch for my plan—trust me—is sweeter than I'd imagined.

* * *

Or, not so sweet.

"I take back _every_ nice thing I've ever thought about you!" I roar. "You _are_ an ass!"

At the tree line, said 'ass' winces as he leans against a gnarled trunk, massaging his temples. "Sarada, I told you—"

"Five minutes ago! Give a girl an _actual_ warning!"

"It's understandable you're upset—" the commander begins, and is again cut off. But not by me.

"I apologize."

Tobirama stands, sword in his hand, face with as much emotion as the rock relief on Hokage Monument. My anger pops like a balloon, as residual heat floods my face.

Beyond Tobirama and Soujiro, there's no one else in this meadow at the edge of the forest. Soujiro insisted on privacy for my mission. Anyhow, Kouki and Naki are fighting in the central plains. The Akimichi women gave me extra pills, of which I didn't dare bring more than two, in case they get recognized. But pills and salves won't cut it if Tobirama 'accidentally' slices me in half, before I even attempt my mission.

"Apology rejected." My arms cross over my chest. "I'll cut myself, if I have to."

Soujiro passes a hand over his face. "Tobirama's the most skilled with a sword. You're entitled to punch me later, Sarada, but these are the Council's conditions." _I'll bet._ Tobirama looks far too tall and far too menacing, standing two feet away. Too close. He's moved from farther away before, in under a second.

"It won't hurt nearly as much as if I do it," Soujiro rationalizes. "Besides, you won't even need to lie about a Senju assaulting you."

 _I can already tell the truth about that_. Adrenaline scrapes through my system, trepidation growing with the late afternoon shadows. I could scrap this idea altogether. But then, what of my teammates, the original Kuroha team? Do they worry they'll have to go through with Kuroha version one? The version with a zero percent success rate? Or perhaps they believe that I will defect to the Uchiha, after I leave. Perhaps they think it inevitable that I would betray the Fire alliance. Or worse, that I rationalized my options and quit, in the face of insurmountable odds. And that they, too, should quit.

"It's getting late," Soujiro says pointedly.

Gooseflesh races up my arms as I turn my back to my executioner (muttering "I must be crazy"), lean my head against the tree, and I try to focus on the intricate patterns of the bark. It's not very effective.

A breeze tickles the tree branches above.

"Hurry it up!" rips from my throat.

Silence. I whip around. Tobirama's sword points downward to the grass, as do his eyes—perhaps relief, perhaps… no, nothing profound is in the usual, unyielding gaze. "Chickened out?" I say. "Didn't want to murder me without a large audience?"

Out of my peripheral vision, Soujiro approaches, and motions to his back. Haltingly, I touch my hand to my own back.

My fingers come away red.

 _Wow._

Blood seeps into my sliced shirt, dribbling onto the dewy grass. _Such_ skill makes me forget whose technique I'm admiring.

"I didn't even _feel_ that."

The swordsman's reaction is as delayed as the cut. Tobirama breathes hard, at odds with the austere, blank-faced man from seconds ago. Soujiro claps a hand to the Senju's shoulder, before he turns to me. Before I can flinch away, the commander gives me a quick pat on the head.

"Walk in the shadows, Sarada," Soujiro says. "You'll find your friends there."

 _Are Nara clansmen the reinforcements?_ Now isn't the time to contemplate this. I breathe in the scent of murky woods. The forest stretches on, cool and dark. It reminds me of Konoha's wooded surroundings. Beyond these trees is the enemy's eastern camp, nestled against the thicket serving as a natural defense to attacks from the side. Other than this shield, the camp has an ice wall. From Soujiro's estimation, the ice wall shouldn't extend to the sides of camp, since a large attack force can't penetrate dense foliage. If I hurry, I should arrive before nightfall.

"I'll send my signal at sundown," I say awkwardly. Goodbyes are not my forte. "Attack then."

Soujiro nods. "We'll be ready. Reinforcements will be stationed just outside the camp."

Before I start walking past the tree line, my gaze catches Tobirama's.

' _People see what they want to see.'_

"I'll make sure you don't regret it," I call back. "Giving this a chance."

Giving _me_ a chance.

* * *

The skies herald in a blue-gray curtain of cloud. Birdsong mutes against the rustling leaves. There's a gloom in the air, seeping into my cells. Or maybe it's just the stickiness of blood against my back, as I push through the underbrush. When I next look up, a blue curtain hangs over a tangerine-pink sky.

Tobirama's cut _was_ masterful—the steady drip has coagulated against my shirt. I rub dirt onto my serviceable dark slacks, which resemble the pants I wore during my time fighting under the Uchiha.

Thinning trees reveal the first signs of camp. A low wall comes into sight—not ice, but timber logs, stacked neatly to a height several heads above mine. Should I walk along the perimeter? I'm supposed to be tired enough that I wouldn't pose a threat, Uchiha or not.

I kick the wall. No chakra charges my leg, but it's loud and resonant. It's not long before I hear scuffling of grass.

Two masked figures glide in from opposite sides, closing in.

A blade edge swings at my torso. _Fast._

With my activated eyes, perhaps I could dodge.

I don't.

The blade slices just enough, before I spin away. _Good._ This wound should ease my entry into camp.

Now for the main show. I channel what I recall about how Uchiha treat _outsiders._ Even gushing blood from several open wounds, I stand tall. Even shorter than the two guards, I peer down my nose. My words are as swift and cutting as any blade.

"You know who I am."

"A half-dead rat, soon to be fully dead," scoffs the one who'd cut me.

They wear segmented armor over black bodysuits. _Samurai?_ I stave off my curiosity. Uchiha Tajima's speech courses through my head, as my eyes to drip condescension. I don't need to be welcomed in. I need to be respected. Recognized.

I need to be let _inside._

"Well?"

Both guards stiffen, and finally, lower their swords.

* * *

Mysteries about the enemy's eastern camp are solved in quick succession. An ice wall frames the horizon, with matching igloo-like structures made of packed snow dotting the ground. The domed huts reflect multi-colored hues of the sky, lending the camp a strange ethereal feeling. Or it could be the relative quiet, compared to Fire. Still scanning the camp (hoping against hope to see Itama), I'm led to a larger hut, where I'm bandaged by a willowy woman with inordinately beautiful features, who asks me to hold my shirt against my chest. The baritone voice solves an unrelated mystery. My healer is a _he._

He's also conclusive proof: _there are_ _ice users here._ His fingers issue ribbons of ice, lacing the woven poultice for my back and fresh side wound. After treatment, I'm led to a single-room hut with a thin futon. The guard glues himself next to the single door. I glance at his long sword, his wedge-like topknot. _Okay, samurai._

My own backstory is simple: an Uchiha hostage captured by Fire, with wounded body and even more wounded pride. Becoming a caricature of my clansmen sours my stomach, but this is no time to vindicate the Uchiha name. This is about playing to stereotype.

' _People see what they want.'_ Imagination fills in the rest.

Eyes red, I stand before the futon. "I require new clothes," I say. The guard's face purples. Still, he leaves.

My heart pounds a labored rhythm. Briefly, I consider making a run for it. But it's better to wait for darkness. Allay suspicion. I peel away my stained shirt to reveal crusted dried blood, painting sticky brown trails over pale skin. My body aches to lay on the futon and rest. Instead, I wrap the blanket over my torso like a horror fashion show. My guard comes back with a shirt and pants. Per my plan, he balks at the sight of me. Unfortunately, he's also brought a female guard who's nonplussed. They stand outside the hut as I change (and eavesdrop).

"You think she's a real Uchiha? We should ask how she got those wounds."

"Senju, I reckon."

"I swear, the Uchiha kick up a fuss because _they_ can't defeat 'em. Fire territory's full of weaklings."

"Not sure about that. It was five years ago, but I still remember one Senju boy. Kid had a freakin' _bowl cut_ , but also the most terrifying chakra signature I've ever sensed. I thought to myself, 'he'll become a monster, if I don't do something now'. But the kid escaped across the forest riding some freaky moving vines."

"Ranmaru, I thought you quit the pipe _seven_ years ago."

"I _did."_

Shortly, the female guard reenters. I'd had a thin hope that they would leave me unguarded for longer periods of time.

"I'm ready to tuck in for the night," I say, hoping this wards her away.

Amazingly, the truth of Ranmaru's pipe habits proves more interesting than me. I'm left alone in my hut (though surrounded by an entire camp of enemies). I wait until I hear tell-tale clanking sounds outside. _Dinner rush_. If this camp is anything like other war camps I've been in, then people are heading indoors to eat.

It's time.

The coast is clear. The sun dips below the horizon, almost completing its transformation of the evening sky. My heart thuds as I walk out. Not too fast, in case I look suspicious. Not too slow, in case I miss the appointed time. Major battles in this era usually don't happen at night, in the absence of light. But that doesn't mean it never happens. There can be night watches. Fortunately, this camp is sparsely patrolled. The reason is confidence in their icy defense.

Soon, I'm face to face with it: an enormous, twinkling ice wall, even taller than the one once around our camp, and no less thick.

 _Amaterasu_ 's black fire blends eerily into the dark, emitting a strange, muted glow as the strangely flickering embers lick at the ice. I feel the ground muddy at my feet. The fading red sun has now fully tucked itself behind the horizon, but parts of the wall are still not melted. Those around camp will come looking after my next move, but this cannot wait. Without real-time communication devices like radios, a prior, agreed upon time is paramount.

I issue a stream of fire into the sky.

Red and fiery, lighting up the night as a beacon to my allies.

* * *

At first, I hear nothing, see nothing. The moon overhead is still young, and the clouds are thick. Then there are shouts, behind me. People emerge from their huts, some with dinner still in hand. A few have seen the enormous red fireball, but I've moved locations, and it's difficult to discern the source. My mind buzzes, telling me to flee, but I can't. I need to expand the melted areas. Perhaps if I move behind a wall, or find some sort of hidden enclave? I'm mid-step when a hand claps to my wrist.

"Why're you out here?"

It's the samurai guard who'd given me the wound by my side. More shouts, behind us. "The wall! It's gone!" It's hard for people to believe. The only evidence is the pool of water that soaks into the grass at everyone's feet. My heart drops as I see numerous figures run out, and begin to recrystallize sections of the wall.

The guard follows my line of vision. "This is no coincidence," he murmurs.

His blade swings down like a guillotine.

But I won't let it slice me, this time. I twist, charge my hand with lightning, and press it along the flat edge of his blade. Electricity crackles up his katana, seizing his arm and traveling to his core. "You—!" Spasms steal his voice. His hold on his katana loosens enough for me to wrest it away for my own use.

I run.

Not toward my hut. A job can't be left undone. Unattended, _amaterasu_ is too dangerous, epecially next to the forest. I also need to make sure the wall is melted, so reinforcements can enter.

The jarring ring of steel clangs through the air. I grit my teeth as a new samurai propels backward, only to launch forward again, sword singing its death song. My hilt just barely catches the blow, and I pump chakra to my arm.

 _Cling!_ Another strike, dancing along my stolen blade.

 _Clang!_ Shattering it.

Even with Sharingan, I can hardly copy the mesmerizing swordplay. It's as beautiful to watch as it is deadly. I wish I could stay and observe. Stay and master even half of the fluid motions.

A flurry of needles whistles through the air. Spinning, I knock away some with my broken sword.

My chest seizes.

Three senbon pierce my right lung and heart. As the samurai rushes forward, I drop to a roll to get away. My hand clutches my chest, willing that the ice thaw. That my heart keep pumping warm blood.

That's when a katana plunges into my back.

Ice laced through my core renders the pain almost illusory. I lift myself an inch from the dirt, and see that same inch of _metal_ jutting through my clothes. Pain is late, but _explosive._ Someone grabs me by the hair and drags me across the trembling earth.

Dimly, I register being pulled across camp. I press my hands to my chest to delay organ failure. When stars stop flickering at the edges of my vision, I'm in an ice hut. Larger, but with the same soft blues refracted along snowy walls.

An angel stands before me.

An angel of death; his perfectly molded features look ready to kill, as he reaches down toward my glasses. His hand never makes it. It erupts in black fire, which eats away at the rest of him. Then, in an instant, his form crumbles into splintering, watery ice. _Clone._

"So she _is_ an Uchiha!" The man, now several feet away, has an ethereal expression. A livid one, too. Strange mix. "What do we do if she dies? I can't explain this to Madara."

"Pass the blame," sneers the woman. "Besides, our wall's been compromised. She could've done it."

"Keep her here then," he orders. "She's half-dead. Clearly, she doesn't have chakra left. I'll go repair the wall."

As his footsteps fade, my slippery fingers finally grasp and pluck the senbon from my chest. My mouth tastes of iron, hot and heady. But the ice is no longer spreading. My shaking hands sweep through new motions, to activate my modified _yin_ seal.

Mine isn't nearly as good as Mama's. _But please! Be enough!_

"Y-Your forehead." The samurai stares, transfixed. "What are you doing?"

New cells ripple like goose bumps across my body. "Several months," I rasp. Steam rolls off my skin. "What I _have been_ doing for several months."

"Don't move!"

My fist closes around the katana still skewering me. Teeth clenched, I remove it. With a wave of hot chakra, the hole knits together. Everything still hurts. But I stand.

Poised. My katana bloodied and gleaming.

"My kenjutsu's not as good as yours," I say as my eyes pulse red. "So do me a favor. Draw your sword."

* * *

A few parries in, the hut's ice walls shudder from the force of an unseen battering ram. The blade clips my ear, as I twist, eyes parallel to the ceiling, in time to watch chunks of ice fall like massively-proportioned hail. I shield myself as a hunk of densely packed snow smashes into the samurai's sword hand. Another blasts across her head, splintering into crystalline fragments.

The ice hut starts to cave in.

I reach the exit. Pandemonium. This time, the path through camp is mayhem. Bodies race to and fro in the pitch dark. Flickering torchlight illuminates frenzied features. I pull my shirt up to my nose, but it's unnecessary. No one's paying me any attention.

Because the very earth shakes. Figures tower, too tall to be fully illuminated by torch light.

 _Giants_ walk among us.

Like enormous, humanoid titans, their every stomp shakes the earth. I scan the camp, and count a total of four twenty-five foot giants, their trunk-like arms fending off a rain of blades and senbon. My heart squeezes, even as my soul shakes with primordial fear. _Akimichi!_ Who else did Soujiro include?

But first, unfinished business.

I sprint toward the wall.

There's a line of people. Hands outstretched, reflected in their work. _Ice panels!_ If these stem Soujiro's troops, then my job is clear. Quickly crafted ice panels are not the sturdy wall. Rather, each panel balances on thin, overlaid connective sheets.

At the briefest touch of black fire, the icy mirrors crumple, crashing across the heads of their makers. The close huddle of only makes it harder to avoid the panels, which shatter like glass shards. Bathed in the orange blaze of fallen torches, the view is as frightening as it is dazzling.

Someone shouts.

Suddenly, all eyes are on me. Those who've been fighting the Akimichi turn. But my attention is captive elsewhere—in front. Now, I see the remnants of the ice wall. Shoddy, sloping lines rise and fall like sinusoidal curves. But where are the reinforcements? Did the Akimichi make it over because of size expansion? Was the wall too tall, still, for other allies?

Then, as clouds shift over a pale waxing moon, I see it.

Something else _moves_ in the night _._

Something not human.

Curling tendrils. A budding leaf.

A whole, twisting branch, like a headless limb, snaking over the ice.

Then, the rest of the body. Except it's not really bodies. _Trees_ climb over the ice like live things, their verdant crowns pushing together in swarms.

Vaguely, I register people running towards me, blades unsheathed. But nothing can stop me now, as I, too, weave through their swords under the now exposed moon. Soon, I'm heading toward the line of trees to the east, in a dead run.

No one gives chase.

Greener invaders than me draw everyone's attention. Once there were giants. Now there's a different sort of nightmare. Under the stormy sky, the forest cracks and splinters, alive and angry in a mad moonlit dance.

The tremors are ear-splitting, here. Ancient roots rumble through the hardened soil. Just as I hop the familiar wooden fence at the east side of camp, I catch a sound through the trees, neither branch nor leaf. I halt, panting.

"Good of you to come," I call into the dark forest.

"Good of you to follow directions," echoes a familiar laugh.

"Sorry if I'm late." I scan the night. "Soujiro told me to walk toward the shadows. But it's hard to figure out where the shadows are, when it's dark and cloudy."

The lone figure—perched on a tree branch—leans into the moonlight.

"That means I would've come to get you. Wherever you were."

My heartbeat pounds loud and clear, against my stinging left ear. The night's suddenly eerily quiet, yet also a full symphony—the snap of branches, the thrush of wind through leaves. Nature's sounds blot the memory of ice and fire and steel. I peer into the dense thicket. "Are you the only one here?" I ask. "Where's the reinforcements?"

Slowly, Senju Hashirama smiles.

"I _am_ the reinforcements."

* * *

The eastern camp's surrender is unconditional. Sarutobi Soujiro is elevated to a position equal to Senju Butsuma's. Well, equal in name, only. Still, everyone acknowledges Soujiro's strategic genius, as the one who has brokered the political will to oust two key players from the enemy's alliance: First, the samurai. Second, the ice users. Both parties have leaders whose interest in invading Fire proved shallow, relative to others in their alliance. Soujiro had been exchanging letters brokering a possible deal to get these parties to pack up and leave. Though 'carrots' hadn't worked, the extra 'stick' of military hard power bore fruit.

As I organize old stacks of letters (convalescent job, for a literate ex-courier), I can't help but add my voice to the admiring throng.

"I'd have promoted you to head commander, over Butsuma."

Soujiro wrinkles his nose, like the comment gives off an offensive smell. "Half-Nara, half-Sarutobi. By blood, I'm not qualified to lead. Just think. Who would follow me?"

"Simple. Both clans."

He scrubs a hand over twinkling but tired eyes. "Thank you for the vote of confidence," he sighs as he piles some more unopened letters in front of him. "Don't you have a feast to get to?"

"I'd rather help you sort letters."

"You'd _rather_ stick your big nose into state secrets."

 _Big nose?_ "Says the pot," I grin.

This is my first invitation to a post-battle feast. All soldiers in the alliance are invited, not just those who took part in the battle. Despite Hashirama's words in the forest, hundreds of new soldiers have just trickled into camp. Hashirama himself had arrived early to fight the ice users first-thing upon arrival. His 'rousing patriotism' makes its way through camp gossip. I just hope no one's giving Hashirama alcohol. Post-dinner, the booze is particularly free-flowing. A celebratory bonfire lights the center of camp, where it singes several shirts, tents, and irritates on-call healers. No one else's mood is dulled in the slightest.

But not everyone's out cavorting.

Butsuma, Tobirama, and Hashirama are absent. Likely, the first two didn't want to watch me get toasted all night. There's a different view of the Uchiha—well, of me—now that gossip tells of how I'd infiltrated an enemy camp. I'm wedged at a table between the twins, with a daunting three flagons of tributary sake staring me in the face.

"Other people deserve credit," I say, as another flagon is deposited at our table. "Like Soujiro. I can't believe he's being forced to do paperwork tonight."

"Sensei's _awesome_ at paperwork," Kouki slurs devoutly.

"He is awesome," I say. "It's thanks to his backstage planning that we won the battle."

"You should be thanking _me,"_ a voice interjects. With varying degrees of enthusiasm, the table's occupants greet Akimichi Haruka. "The Akimichi bulldozed the enemy camp," says Haruka, and swigs from her enormous jug of sake. She indicates my much more modest cup.

"Tonight, I'll also drink to your guts, girl."

"Thanks," I say, embarrassed. I down the water I've discreetly put in my sake cup. Kouki chugs his own sake, as Naki, suspiciously red-faced, guffaws. Haruka joins in laughing. However, she soon stops, gaze someplace behind me. I turn, and nearly spray the man standing there.

Like a statue, Tobirama stands haloed by the bright bonfire, hair glowing orange. He proffers a small cup at me.

"It's rude to cheers with water."

I eye the giant containers of sake already at the table, then, grimly accept Tobirama's cup. Heady liquor smells assault my nose.

"I'm underage," I try.

"Under _what?"_ frowns Kouki.

Ruby eyes narrow. "Perhaps you mean that you're like my brother."

"Yes." The heel of my palm dabs my forehead. "I'm a total lightweight."

"Senju Hashirama's a lightweight?" Haruka screeches. "Perfect. I'm gonna find him." She does a trembling shimmy off the bench. "He kicked _so much ass_ , I swear! I mean, the Akimichi did most of the work, but really-hic-Hashirama was _something else._ Whu-where is he?"

"You have a fiancé," Naki scowls. But Haruka's already sauntering away, warbling what sounds like: _"Husbands are for finances, boyfriends are for looove."_

"Protect your brother," says Kouki, soberly.

"He's being debriefed by my father," Tobirama returns. "Their tent is well protected from interlopers."

Everyone around the table now feels somewhat suffocated. I fidget, palm to my neck. "Do you want to sit?" I ask the future Nidaime, ignoring Naki's not-so-subtle kill sign.

"No."

I try not to breathe an audible sigh of relief. "Okay. Uh."

"Father congratulates you, by the way."

Truly dizzy now, I murmur another thanks.

* * *

A messenger in lavish robes arrives at my tent the next morning, in the middle of chores. The sun's already up. Nevertheless, she seems surprised to see that I'm awake. No doubt many are feeling the aftereffects of last night's party.

"Uchiha-san, you are requested at the Alliance Council this morning."

I stop wringing grubby wash towels. "The one where the commanders meet together?"

The messenger nods. "With the esteemed daimyo, as well."

Wow. I'm not as fresh-faced as I'd like, for that.

"When?"

"We should arrive in time if we leave now."

"Just a sec." I run to take the kettle from the fire, and extinguish the flame by patting soot onto the coals. Then I wipe my hands on my shirt. "Alright, let's go."

The messenger's face pinches politely. "I may be speaking out of turn, but the venue…" she sifts through some words. "Perhaps a change of clothes would better suit?"

I follow her line of sight. Now that the weather's taken a one-eighty after the ice users left, I've retired my standard army sweats. It's function over fashion for chores. I'm in a long men's shirt given to me by Megumi (her stash for patients had some surplus thanks to Haruka's spring-cleaning her ex's stuff). It's modest enough, trailing to mid-thigh where it balloons like a dress. But I suppose bare knees aren't exactly appropriate for Sengoku politicians. (Butsuma might get a heart attack. Hm. To change or not to change).

"I have sweats? Armor?"

The messenger's brow furrows. "I will fetch something suitable. My tent isn't far."

Sheepish, I nod. It's been a long time since I've been concerned about my appearance. Between fighting, healing, and even a raucous party last night, I haven't had time. But the messenger's recommended outfit brings to mind Mama's threats to sic Aunt Ino on me during my childhood. The light peach yukata has an inconceivable number of delicate yellow bows. My cheeks flame the entire walk across camp, as soldiers halt their tasks to stare and whisper.

It's almost déjà vu, being whisked into the spacious Senju tent.

Not for the meeting I'd had here previously. Rather, as I'm led further into the space, I'm reminded of the meetings at Ueno Castle, full of old, balding men wearing severe kimonos and even more severe expressions. The _most_ familiar thing, though, is the figure at the opposite end of a long wooden table: Hashirama. I grin despite myself. But for some reason, Hashirama cuts off eye contact. Then a slight movement in my peripheral vision catches my eye: Butsuma—face grim, eyes scanning me up and down. I suddenly get the urge to rip off every single bow on my clothes. The urge remains as I'm seated. But from this new angle, I notice Soujiro. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

Butsuma begins the introductions around the table. These are the most important of the Fire territory alliance. I don't know if I'm expected to remember names. There are six daimyo. Three daimyo representatives, for those who could not make it, including Aida and Ueno. And there are eleven unit commanders, including Butsuma himself, although he is technically not in charge of a unit, but over the entire troop formation. Like Soujiro's new position. I chance another glance at the slumping Sarutobi. He certainly doesn't carry himself like he's been promoted.

Currying favor with the daimyo means I follow their rules. Etiquette is mysterious. But I've sat through enough Ueno meetings to know to wait until I'm asked to speak. I wait to hear why I've been summoned. Perhaps another impossible mission. Or congratulations on the last one.

My guesses are wrong.

A daimyo resembling a fat, sleek cat—Fukushima, I think—speaks: "I motioned several days ago that we discuss the hostage situation." There's a series of murmurs around the table. "So," Fukushima continues. "It's my delight that the enemy is now more willing to cooperate, after the recent blow."

My teeth clench. _Itama?_

"And it's come to our attention today that Lord Senju's youngest son is being offered for an exchange."

A drumming starts in my ears.

"Lord Senju, I know you've waited a long time for this."

Butsuma says nothing, but nods in brief. Meanwhile, I feel like my veins are going to jump off my skin.

"So…"

And now Fukushima's looking straight at me.

"We brought you here, Uchiha girl—"

"Yes!" I say, standing up at attention.

 _Do I get to find Itama, now? Assemble a team to retrieve him?_

Fukushima's face pinches. "Right, this…" His copper eyes trail over my clothes. "… little girl. The enemy's put up an offer of exchange for her."

No one speaks.

"Excuse me?" I breathe.

"You're excused." Fukushima flashes a small, tight smile.

Butsuma takes over, staring the other members down, eyes avoiding me. "The enemy sent the letter just this morning. They are willing to return Senju Itama, in exchange for Uchiha Sarada."

My own eyes drag across the table's occupants. Soujiro's face is bloodless, his dark circles more prominent than ever. I can see this is news; that he'd had a clue, but not known just what this exchange entailed.

Then, my other ally: Hashirama. I expect shock. Maybe anger. But no.

Placid.

Carefree.

As if he'd heard nothing of consequence.

There's a faint _plop_. I realize I've fallen back into my chair.

' _People see what they want.'_

I'm no different, after all. I've painted the future Shodaime as my friend. Let my walls drop. But what's to say I'm not just seeing what I want? What's to say that Hashirama—if given a choice between blood and friend—wouldn't pick blood in a heartbeat?

That—between clan and Konoha—Hashirama wouldn't scrap Konoha?

.

.

.

 _tbc_

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* * *

 _Suzu:_ huge thanks to _cloverhoney_ , for the proof and beta on this chapter. All remaining errors are mine. You can find this kind and talented soul on this site as well as on AO3.

 _Notes:_ For an image of the snow huts, search Yokote kamakura snow houses. Also, I have a few pending guest review replies re: plot and subplot. I'll insert those after notes in the next chapter, since we're ending the arc.

 _Next up:_ lacquer arc's end.

Hold on to your hats, friends. Things are gonna get twisty.


	10. lacquer 6

_Experimental bgm:_ 'The Way' (instrumental v.) by Zack Hemsey (on youtube). When you read "Haruka puts me in red"*, hit play. Ideally, you reach "Healer, Avenger" at the 3:29 mark. 5:00 is "Stop it! Your real enemy's [...]!" These are all section beginnings. _  
_

* * *

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 **Triptych**

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10

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 _the narrow path_

 _down the middle_

.

* * *

Light filters into the cocoon of my arms. I resist the urge to lash out like Madam Shimiji's old cat Tora Jr. whenever genin find him nesting in a bush. Blearily, I crack open an eye. My tent is emptier now. Half my supplies have gone to healers who aren't in danger of being _exchanged._ The other half I've kept for mortar sessions with Megumi, emergency cases, and yes, out of sheer stubbornness.

I yawn.

Another noise makes me look up. Chiharu shuffles at the entrance, cradling a blank canvas. "Sorry to wake you. You were having a bad dream?"

"Oh," I say uncertainly. "I can't remember."

"You were repeating things. _Bo-ku-to?"_

I stare at my hands.

"Do you need a new sword?" Chiharu asks.

"I'm fine."

Even children can sense landmines. Wisely, the girl changes subjects, and holds up her canvas.

"Sign, please?"

* * *

"Looks like a duck."

"You think?" I wrinkle my nose. The 'da' character _does_ bear an uncanny resemblance to an aquatic fowl's bill. "Hold on, let me fix it."

"Don't!" Chiharu gasps. "What matters is auth-en-ti-ci-ty. Besides. Ducks are cute."

 _Cute?_ Not a winning concept for a ninja. I roll up my sleeves. "How about I add some fire?" My artistic skills don't hold a candle to Inojin or Himawari, but they don't dip into the abyss either. Still, the new squiggles under my autograph don't seem to improve things.

I set down my brush just as the Yamanaka twins enter. Naki identifies my autograph as a stylized drawing of a _roasted_ duck. Kouki says it looks like horse manure.

But only metaphorically.

Still, Chiharu skips out cheerfully, with Naki shouting after her: "Go through me next time! I'm her manager!"

"Manager?" I echo. "I'm not some pop idol."

"Pop what?" says Kouki. "Managers are what famous kabuki performers have." He eyes me, like he's imagining me pasty-faced and in a fifty-pound wig.

 _"Stop,"_ I say flatly.

"But you _are_ getting famous around camp," Naki enthuses. "Hottest topic in town."

"Hn."

"That's your problem, Sarada," Naki tuts. "You lack self-awareness. Managers are useful. They chase away rabid fans with a broomstick."

My thumb jerks toward the exit. "Go. Before I get out _my_ broomstick."

Kouki rises readily, grumbling: "We don't want to waste time here either. Sensei asked to see you" while Naki adds: "Are you and Sensei mad at each other? Did Sensei leave you out of the loop on some plan again?"

The opposite, actually.

I'm the one withholding. Soujiro's been subtly pestering me to talk about the hostage exchange, ever since I'd left the Senju tent, thoughts spinning and with a malaise in my bones. Megumi had noticed. Between grinding paste and pushing _omiai_ options, she'd asked if I'd caught a cold. I'm not sick. Only heartsick. And the only bug I've caught is the one called 'choice'. The Council didn't force me to go through with the hostage exchange. It gave me two days to choose.

 _Return Itama._

 _Protect Fire territory._

 _Save myself._

Only, I've never been good at choosing. Soujiro will likely talk me out of the exchange. Even worse, he'll talk _reason_ to me. But I have no energy to reason. Neither to soul-search. Unlike Naruto-sama, I don't have a way with words. Banal words like "I have to" or "it's the right thing" can only forfeit allies. Therefore, I don't want to see Soujiro.

Besides, if this _is_ how it ends, who can blame me? I'm reuniting with kin. Even two future hokage side with their clan. Tobirama's eyes trail me when our paths cross; Hashirama avoids me altogether _._ According to Haruka's status reports (stalker reports), Butsuma's heir isn't sequestered. He's out and about, fighting battles by day and chumming it up with daimyo by night. Gambling again.

' _Will you build a village with me?'_

Perhaps Hashirama's done waiting for an answer.

After all, gambling games have a time limit.

* * *

Be careful what you say no to. It turns out that I _could_ use a manager brandishing a broom. Though not at rabid fans. Not exactly. The morning of the second day since the Fire Council meeting, an eclectic group trails along the side of my tent. Tall, short, fat, skinny silhouettes stand outlined against the canvas. Stares and whispers aren't new. I've always tuned them out. But I can't in good conscience turn away patients. Even if four people fake the flu in succession, and the soldier I'm with now has a dubious-looking 'rash'.

He fixates on me, as I frown at his carefully sandpapered forearm.

"An Uchiha, up close," the soldier breathes. "You have demon eyes?"

"Yes," I deadpan. "They let me see through bullshit."

" _Amazing."_

I swallow a sigh. "You should go."

"After I get bandaged by an Uchiha," he says zealously. "So. Are the rumors true? Starting with that _incident_ with Lord Tobirama. I mean, I heard Commander Sarutobi would have anyone who talked, tortured."

 _Good ol' torture threats. As scary as paper tigers.  
_

"Also, are you really going back to your clan?"

My bandages drop to the floor.

He helps himself to the fallen roll, twirling generously round his arm. "I mean, that's the latest story."

"Latest?" My teeth set.

"I heard it just last night. That's still before most people, this morning, you know. I told myself: 'You're never gonna get another chance to see demon eyes, and live. You should _seize_ this chance!'"

"No, you should _leave._ "

And he does

—when I announce his prognosis (venerable skin disease) loud enough for those outside to hear. The line quickly disperses. I feel an almost wrathful satisfaction when I go outside to inspect.

Until I spot a lone remainder.

A young boy no older than Itama peeks shyly from a tent away. He's familiar. _Is that the patient from that night Kouki came?_ Silver hair's memorable. Testament to this fact is how quickly even civilians identified the Rokudaime playing pachinko in seedy foreign bars.

Our eyes lock. This produces an interesting set of symptoms: a flush from the neck up; wringing hands; fidgeting feet. It's contagious, too. I catch a large dose of second-hand embarrassment. After a minute, I cave and invite him inside my tent.

The young boy pales as I offer him a bag of jerky (he looks like he needs it more than me), reaching into his traditional collar and pulling out a bulbous wooden thing with rounded moons and stars carved on the surface. He holds it out. "I-I don't have much."

"It's very nice," I say, confused. "What is it?"

In response, he presses the slimmer end to his lips and produces a trembling _phweet._

"Ocarina," I realize.

The boy narrowly avoids dissolving into tears. "It's not enough, b-but I'll find some other way to pay. For the food. And healing me."

 _Oh._

"Don't pay me now," I murmur. "But I'd like to hear you play. Someday. When you're ready."

His chin wobbles a bit. "Yes, Ma'am."

"Sarada. Your name?"

"Tenji..." Poor kid says his own name like a question.

Intel must have barraged him already. Still, he consents to repeat his story to me. His farm was razed by recent fighting. His family, killed. I ask if he has other relatives. "Not nearby," he squeaks, leaking tears. "Gramps used to say that we're from up north. Came down after the great calamity."

Further drilling a sniffling boy feels wrong. But his next word banishes all niceties.

 _"Itama."_

I stick a finger to my ear to check for gunk.

"I overheard people talk," he continues. "You're being exchanged, and everyone says—"

"Who cares what they say," I cut in. "What about _Itama?"_

"H-He was very nice to me."

"You _saw_ him? Where?"

"We were in the same prison. I was going to be sold to s-slavers. He kept encouraging me," Tenji says miserably. "He's the one that left first, though. Maybe they sold him. But… he didn't look _well._ He had trouble breathing. Coughed a lot. I think the guards were worried it would spread to us."

Now, it's also hard for me to breathe.

"How long ago was this?"

"Um," Tenji hems. "Maybe a week."

* * *

Commitment.

It's hard to commit to a choice. Easier if someone else imputes it on you.

That's what happens. In two days, rumors spread around camp; the hostage exchange becomes common knowledge. The Uchiha girl who melted the ice wall and infiltrated the eastern camp—yes, the same girl Lord Tobirama fought—is being traded for Commander Senju's youngest son. To questions, I just nod _'yes, true'_ and move along.

Perhaps, in my heart, I'd already decided.

The Council, too, seems to treat it as a foregone conclusion. When I report, Lord Fukushima looks as satisfied as a cat with cream. Butsuma's there, too, but his face doesn't change. Except for one instant: when I deposit a five-sided die onto the table. But his expression spasms so quickly, I don't have time to read it. A true statesman, indeed.

From there, people around camp start embellishing the bare-bones story. One version paints me as a nihilist who failed to assassinate Tobirama, and is now trying to worm back to the Uchiha. Another version martyrs me. Another stars a love triangle with the Senju brothers, or the Yamanaka twins, or—craziest of all, daimyo geezers that gossips pick at random from the Council.

 _Literally_ heart-wrenching, that version.

While Soujiro pesters, Kouki has taken to alternatively sulking and snapping at me. Naki had to be dispatched on a mission, to prevent him from acting out. Chiharu and her friends frame their autographs, and hang them in their bunks (I'm not sure how to feel about this; I'm not dead _yet_ ). The only tolerable company is Akimichi Haruka, whose rants still feature a diversity of subject matter. But even she's not immune to all the talk.

"Seems like you didn't need beauty pills," Haruka comments over dinner. "By now, you've canoodled with half of Fire territory."

I cough up fish curry. It was too much to ask, to eat my last supper in peace.

"Lord Jounzo's the latest," she hums.

 _Jounzo?_ Ah, daimyo with the astonishingly bushy mustache (compared to the tufts desperately clinging to his scalp).

"So, is it true?"

"False," I choke out. "Not my type."

"But Jounzo's _so_ rich. Rich is _everyone's_ type." Haruka's nails tap the table, as if rebuking an unenlightened child whose only interest is shoveling down curry (not untrue). "Any merchant on the continent would kill to get a license to trade in Jounzo's fiefdom. The guy could have been more powerful than Ueno, if he'd succeeded in luring the Senju clan to work for him instead."

Okay, a _little_ gossip goes well with curry. "Why didn't it work out?" I ask.

"Who knows? Could be that Jounzo's place is too far south. Plus, he's a greedy old bastard."

"But eligible?"

" _Damn_ eligible," Haruka sighs rapturously. "The only one that came close was Ueno, y'know. Well, when he was alive. I guess it's Ryugu now, who's richest. He's just acquired all those new fishing ports." She ticks off her fingers, as if counting ports. I think of faces at roundtable. _Ryugu._ Slightly skinny. Air of a bloodhound.

Haruka grows solemn. "Return the favor."

I manage a 'huh' around my spoonful of rice.

"When you're back with the Uchiha clan," she says. "Go scope out the eligible daimyo on their roster for me."

"Why?"

"Ignore what the biased losers around camp say, Sarada—" Haruka's exasperation is so like Chouchou, I bite my cheek "—Your clan is powerful and well-connected. On par with the Senju. Hell, if the Uchiha weren't so isolationist and inbred, I'd go bag one myself. So. This is where you come in. I want an affiliated daimyo, okay? We're friends, right?"

The word 'friends' has been a sore point, of late.

"What about Hashirama?" I say, careful.

"What about him?" Haruka raises an eyebrow, as if she hasn't been reporting to me the heir's every move like a devoted groupie. "The Akimichi come from a backwater family. Even playing mistress to daimyo secures our finances. For clans like the Senju and Uchiha—yes, they're prime vassals, but as _vassals_ , they still need to play their cards carefully. They wouldn't marry down, to lower clans who're just fighting for scraps to survive. Only daimyo at the top of the food chain are free to do what they want."

I must be making a strange face, because Haruka bursts out laughing. "Ugh, you live a _sheltered_ life! Hell, if that old goblin Butsuma had any daughters, he'd have married 'em off ages ago. One for each fiefdom."

 _Old goblin Butsuma._

"Friends." I smile weakly.

Haruka's own grin is wide and dangerous. "Good. Now before your big event, let's us girls go freshen up." At my confused look, she says: "You can't have a good hostage exchange when the hostage doesn't have _killer_ clothes and hair. At least a dagger up your sleeve."

Haruka, not Naki, should be my manager. "Butsuma will have a cow," I say.

"Cow?"

"I mean he'll get upset."

"Oh, I'll make _sure_ of it."

* * *

Haruka puts me in red.

The color of power.

Vitality. Energy. Celebration.

It's also the color of my clothes, growing up. The color of my eyes, my inheritance.

I hug the scarlet kosode to my body, against the morning air. We march behind a small unit. Two masked Senju guards flank me, almost like ANBU. Earlier, Butsuma didn't have a cow (well, sentry did already confiscate my dagger). Neither did he comment, only donned his armor to leave first for the place of the hostage exchange.

 _Face forward. Don't look back._

Somewhere inside the camp, Soujiro's face is pinched, thinking of me marching away. He's waiting for a sign, a letter, to stop this hostage exchange. This is already a great solace to me. That he'd care. But it's too late to change things. As Soujiro himself said, his status can't match Senju Butsuma's. It's not right. But it's the way things are.

War is no time for philosophy.

Yet, to fight without cause is meaningless.

Konoha is a worthy cause. Stopping the Otsutsuki. Saving a life. Itama's. Maybe these are convenient excuses. Every step now is a step closer to the Uchiha. But Madara will likely listen to the late Tajima's advice. Poke out my eyes. Here, my pace drags. Still, I walk further away from camp. From the alliance I'd hoped could recast clan-centered loyalties.

Ultimately, it's a _Senju-led_ alliance. An Uchiha has no place in it.

Butsuma has made this clear. And Hashirama, who I thought would revolutionize the clan system, has not spoken a word to me since our encounter outside the enemy camp. Why should he? He came on his father's orders. He's here at his father's pleasure. Hashirama is the one with his priorities sorted. Not me. Before fighting wars, forming bonds, I should have just asked myself: _what do I want?_

I want a friend. I want to see Itama.

Isn't that reason enough to keep marching?

A thick fog rolls in as we climb uphill. Perhaps it's a product of our increasing elevation. The white mist obscures anything beyond several feet out, in any direction. Eventually, our procession slows as steep crags soften. Deciduous trees still line the hill, but the ground up ahead seems to be level and barren.

We're here: the plateau.

Soujiro's maps denote this as the tallest in the area. In a hostage exchange, if one side decides to cheat before the trade, the other side could chase them down the mountain. Where both sides have finished the trade, both retreat concurrently down opposite sides. This makes it hard to change plans and mount a laborious ambush back uphill. It's the perfect place to do business.

Except for this _mist._

"Our envoy's late," a masked guard says. "Stay here. I'm going to investigate." All too quickly, his figure disappears. Now I realize another reason I'm in red. It's a good hostage color. Easy to spot.

Suddenly, like a peal of thunder, an explosion sounds.

Incomprehensible shouts ring across the mountain. Many soldiers scatter, to meet the voices within the mist. _What's happening?_ An attack? Butsuma's somewhere here on the hill, with more soldiers, sheltered by the trees. Should anything unexpected occur, he would act. Secure me, the hostage, from running away.

As if reading my thoughts, the remaining masked guard grips my arm.

A second explosion rips through the treeline.

Birds flee, far overhead.

"Duplicitous scum!" is shouted, somewhere. My mind feels as clouded as my surroundings. The mist thickens to a point where I can barely see my own hands.

A third explosion.

"Do it now!" a faraway voice calls. "Bring the hostage thirty steps forward!"

The masked guard's hand tenses on my upper arm. I'm led forward a few baby steps, into the white mist. A chill runs down my spine, and I wish Haruka hadn't piled my hair up into a bun, leaving my neck exposed to cold and—yes, to any other attempts on my arteries.

"We should wait," I say to my guard. "For reinforcements to arrive."

The masked head shakes no.

"Not very sociable, are you?" I scowl.

Something's off. Incensed, I tug my arm away, then—

" _Wait. Don't_ —ah."

The mask falls with a clatter.

 _People see what they want._

Mist wafts into my gaping jaw. I scrub at my fogged glasses, then take them off to give them a more thorough cleaning.

Hashirama's twisted away, as if in shame.

"Don't tell Father." His voice is tight as he stoops. With nary a flicker in his eyes, the mask is back.

It's easier to yell at someone when you can't see their expression. Heart in my throat, I blurt:

"Don't forget your promise, Hashirama. That time, by the river."

 _'Then let the Senju make peace with the Uchiha.'_

Before I can put my cleaned glasses back on, a fourth explosion shatters the eerie silence like splitting thunder.

I drop the lenses.

"Don't move!" I gasp, scrabbling at the ground.

Too late.

* * *

The rest happens in a blur. A literal blur.

A figure hurls through the mist like a torpedo, the drawn blade so close, I see condensation sparkle along the metal edge. The next instant, my nose meets the dirt. Hashirama needed no more than a second, to fling my body away.

Frantic, I crawl back, glued to the ground. _Glasses!_

What I find leaves my brain screaming:

 _Do something_. _Fix this._

But I can't heal crushed plastic lenses and the snapped frame. I can't even ask questions.

Because no one's here.

Hashirama's been spirited away by roiling mist. Our attacker too. A funny urge to cry trembles at my throat. My kosode has pockets, into which I stuff broken pieces of plastic and metal.

"Sarada!" a familiar voice shouts in the fog. It sounds close. But I can't see.

Desperate, I stand. _Thirty steps._

Turn, turn, turn.

Mist seeps into my clothes, cloying and damp. A half-formed Rasengan would be perfect for these situations, but wind is my weakest element. _Try!_ A few feet of empty plateau reveals itself, before furling like a curtain.

 _Where are the other soldiers? The enemy? Itama?_ Almost in answer, the mist swirls. Wind blows, stronger, as I'm surrounded by cloud. I roll myself along the only solid surface I can find. Where the ground had been pebbled before, my cheek now meets dewy weeds.

"Who's there?"

Another familiar voice. One I haven't heard in a long time.

The mist doesn't stand a chance against my newly energized wind jutsu.

 _"Itama!"_

I rush forward; envelope his small figure in a hug.

He's firm and solid and wonderful.

He's also _burning,_ to the touch _._

"Itama," I hiss. "It's me, Sarada! Let's get you home."

Thin hope I'd felt lacing every step here now vanishes like moonbeams. Wrapped in my voluminous red sleeves, Itama trembles, smaller and lighter than he has any right to be. A malaise rampages through his body. Fever's written over his thin, blanched face.

"Sarada?"

I try to smile.

"Y'look different."

I swallow. "No glasses."

"Your face…"

Is on the verge of tears. But I know what Itama _really_ means.

I've changed, since our first encounter. I was ready to become a cold avenger. Yet, people in this era have reminded me of who I used to be, and perhaps, still am. One of them is here with me now. But fading.

My voice rumbles through the boy's bones like thunder. "What did they _put_ you through?"

"M'fine." But his trembling body's honest. "I… escaped. Wanna see my brothers."

"Your family will be here soon," I rasp.

Itama's eyes are dry, unable to shed tears. Maybe that's why mine overflow. I'm crying for two. Futilely, I pump chakra to his body. It's a loss, against deep-rooted malaise. He's a rattling skeleton, feverish and crumbling away.

I guide his drooping head, leaning his forehead against my cheek. "D-Don't leave me. You're my first friend here."

A wheezy laugh. "… I got to see… family after all."

Hysteria laces my voice. I remember.

"My friends are family. That includes you, Itama. That includes you. That includes you," I chant.

Itama's mouth curves against my cheek.

"I hope we're not the last," he smiles. "Not the last Senju and Uchiha who're… are…"

* * *

Healer.

Avenger.

I'm neither. Yet—

* * *

Gradually, the mist clears, dousing the plateau with flecks of color. Dark figures across the way dance to a cacophony of scraping metal. A presence slides behind me. Lightning lacing my hand, I nearly gore the figure. But he's fast. The fastest I know here.

Natural camouflage. White hair on residues of white mist.

"Tobirama! It's…!"

Tears and snot muffle the rest. It's good I can't see. I don't want Tobirama's expression burned in my brain. Wordlessly, he takes his brother from my arms. Cradled to the larger frame, Itama looks every inch a baby brother.

"Get your best healers! Hurry!"

"He's…" Tobirama's words fail, too.

"You don't _know!"_ I half-kneel. "You _never_ know. Please. _Please! Give it a chance!"_

I watch the two fade into the mist.

* * *

A strange emptiness settles over me. My eyes are pinched and hot from crying.

What does it matter?

An Uchiha who can't see is useless.

 _Stand, Sarada._

 _Walk._

 _Forward._

Before I can take my first step, a wave of chakra assaults me. _Madara._

I don't need to see to _feel_. A great winged thing rises out of the trees, height enormous even as it stands down the slope. A long blade made of chakra coalesces around its main bulk. I don't need my glasses for this. The vision's burned into the back of my eyelids. Every time I've seen Papa's.

 _Susanoo._

One flap of wings sets off new explosions around the base of the hill. Fear uproots soldiers on the plateau, as they clamber down the mountainside. The earth beneath groans. Then the trees. Moving, again _. Hashirama._ _Your brother! Itama's dead!_ But no words come out. Thick trunks spiral into the gray skies, knotting into a fuzzy, but unmistakable, silhouette.

A dragon, to answer the tengu.

The splintering wood dragon roars and grows, until it too towers above the plateau. I can't see Hashirama's face. Nor his intentions. Overhead, the sky stretches gray. And against that gray, there are monsters.

Madara's voice booms through the wind.

"Death. Vengeance. The cycle repeats."

 _Repeat._

 _Repeat._

* * *

"Stop it! Your real enemy's not each other!"

 _Don't you see the damage you've done?_

Anger strips away my tiredness. Layer after layer. What's beneath is just bones and chakra. Burning. Unrepentant. What I cannot see, I _feel._ Violently, like a storm. The unbearably hot feeling erupts into a cocoon. I command it to be my tool.

This is the only dojutsu which does not require clear vision. The storm of chakra condenses, its epicenter too close to the beat of my heart, caged in an exoskeleton of chakra and fire. It doesn't feel like my body, burning the sky, trampling the ground.

It is my voice, however.

"Choose, now."

Lifted by my Susanoo, I still can't see the world. But the world sees me. Madara and Hashirama see me. Across the plateau, chakra collides with turbulent air. Down on the ground, people shout things swallowed up by the squall.

My first swing blusters through the wind.

"Choose peace."

My second swing decimates the trees. The tengu's sword is a promise. From a monster. Or just a girl who's lost a friend. Either way, I can barely control myself.

"Otherwise, vengeance will be _mine_ to take."

(But I'm not the only one who knows loss.)

My third swing slices the mountain.

* * *

Three-way battles never go smoothly. Attacks meld and combust, and the mountain crumbles underneath. My exoskeleton grates and collapses as my chakra quickly runs dry.

I fall.

Wind rushes past.

A tengu hand veers toward me. Misses.

I hit the tree line. Branches, vines, leaves—all are astonishingly close, but I continue to fall, as branches shift subtly. Every time I'm caught, my breath whooshes out again as I continue downward. But I can't fall forever. Eyes clenched, I brace for impact with the ground.

Instead of hard dirt, I hit what feels like a pool of water.

 _How?_ No nearby lakes or rivers were marked on Soujiro's map.

A mouthful of liquid sloshes up my nose and mouth. It has a sweet taste.

 _Suiton?_

I force my eyes open.

Underwater, my vision's even muddier than before... fading to gray.

* * *

 _Your hand in mine felt like ash. I clutched, harder, and it became as dust._

 _I shouldn't have held you_

 _So tight._

.

.

.

When I wake, I see blue eyes.

The same eyes had been pouring tears when I'd drifted into unconsciousness. Now, they drink in the sight of me like a man in a drought. Me too. I soak in the sight, too. It feels unreal.

"Did you wanna _kill_ yourself?!"

I flinch.

Boruto's unrelenting. "Pulling that stunt? At least tell us, so we can help you!"

"It was the right thing to do," I retort. "And help? How, by blubbering all over your sleeve?"

The hospital bed frame jerks with the sudden weight of his hand. "You've been on edge all week," he murmurs. "This is about something else, isn't it?" My silence doesn't dissuade him. "Is this about that talk between Dad and the ambassador last week? About Sensei? You said you didn't hear—"

 _"Stop,_ Boruto—"

"No one thinks of Sensei that way anymore! That guy was just trying to get a rise!"

"Let me _sleep—"_

"Sensei's _sensei._ What happened in the past doesn't change anything."

My fingers wring the starched blankets.

"Easy for you to say. I'm his _daughter!_ Papa… he tried to kill the Hokage. Destroy Konoha. What if I turn out the same way?"

"Stupid, you have _me."_

 _"So?"_

"I'll bring you back to your senses 'ttebasa."

"You're not the Nanadaime."

Briefly, an old hurt peeks through.

"And you're not your father, Sarada."

Only the IV drip makes sounds, for awhile. Boruto's fingers trail up the bedding, toward my own hand. I tell myself that it's too much hassle to pull away with a needle in my arm. Morphine makes me bold.

"Then stay with me," I say. "That way, I'll see you in my dreams."

Boruto smiles.

Nods.

* * *

The earth shudders around me in snatches of sound. A thundering engine rumbles over rough road. _Am I on a train?_ No. Can't be. But I am moving, somehow, because in the small, unlighted space, I sway. Side to side, back and forth. My forehead bumps the dark murk in front of my nose, as I press up against a rough surface. Wood. Smells of varnish and rot.

On reflex, my fingers skim the bridge of my nose. That space is empty.

The last few hours feel like a dream. The last few days? Weeks? How long have I been in this dark, rolling space? My head is filled with the same murk that surrounds me. I roll over.

Try.

Sleep.

 _(That way, I'll see you in my dreams.)_

My memory slips between half-formed thoughts.

Part of me wants to forget. None of me can.

Itama. Tobirama. Hashirama. Madara.

Then, another cast of faces. The same waking dream, starting with the stone faces, their solemn features crumbling down the mountain. It's a strange mirror of the last vision I saw before I came to be here: the barren plateau, splintering.

Sleep comes, eventually.

* * *

One is the dream.

The other is reality.

Blearily, I crack open an eye. As the world settles into vague outlines and colors, another thought creeps to my brain.

 _What good is an Uchiha who can't see?_

It's a reminder that I'm in the past. That this is real.

All my other senses are fine, however.

 _Where am I?_

I touch the grass beneath my limbs. There's something else, too. Hard chips, but rounded and convex.

(Shells. _Bribes._ )

I sniff the salt tang of the brisk breeze.

I taste a sweet syrup on my lips.

(A familiar sweetness—a sleeping drug?)

Finally, I sit up and wait, in the still silence.

There's nothing to hear at first.

Then, the sound of waves crashing, frothing.

 _The ocean._

I can hear the ocean.

.

.

.

 _tbc_

.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu:_ so ends lacquer.

This finale tested and terrified me. It's subtle; chaotic. But we move on from war camps, though I (and Sarada) leave pieces behind.

 _Notes (with guest question replies):_ The Valley of the End in canon is between Land of Fire and Land of Sound. So, northern Fire territory, hint. / Itama has tuberculosis. / Sarada turned sixteen in chapter 5. Hair length started off around the same length as her twelve-year old canon self. / Sarada has recently been among the pro-Senju faction of Fire territory. This faction is more expansive within Fire. The Uchiha arguably have a more extensive foreign network than the Senju.

 _Next up:_ besides (finally) getting answers, next chapter's an oddball.

Your encouragement boggles me. Short. Long. Detailed. Crisp. I delight over them all. Thank you. Please look forward to the final arc.


	11. set to dry

_Suzu:_ _we have a temporary icon (up for one week), to jog your memory of Chapter 10. Now, onto this oddball chapter. Beware of chronology.  
_

* * *

.

.

.

[Excerpts of Correspondence along the northern front, chronological]

.

* * *

 **Senju Butsuma to Senju Hashirama, via owl –**

Stay at Ueno.

* * *

 **Hashirama to Senju Tobirama, via turtle –**

Convince Father to let me join the alliance forces. How's Itama?

* * *

 **Tobirama to Hashirama, via toad –**

Itama's still coughing. Stop using turtles for correspondence.

* * *

 **Hashirama to Tobirama, via turtle –**

I heard Madara's there. Convince Father to let me come.

P.S. Would you prefer slugs?

* * *

 **Butsuma to Sarutobi Sasuke, via courier –**

My youngest Itama has gone missing at the front lines. Keep Hashirama at Ueno. I'll call him when we're ready. I suspect the Uchiha or one of their allies has him.

* * *

 **Hashirama to Butsuma, via owl –**

Father, I am ready to come whenever. You know I would be useful.

.

 **Hashirama to Tobirama, via turtle –**

 _Any_ clue on Itama's whereabouts? Don't be reckless. I won't stand to lose you too. Convince Father.

* * *

 **Houzuki Chugetsu (Houzuki clan head) to Butsuma, via mudskipper –**

We have your son. We would be willing to negotiate an offer price, to return him.

.

 **Chugetsu to Uchiha Madara, via courier –**

As you may have heard, we are currently in possession of Senju Butsuma's youngest son. We'd be willing to deliver him to your camp for a small transaction fee.

* * *

 **Butsuma to Chugetsu, via owl –**

If money is what you are after, do not test me.

.

 **Chugetsu to Madara, via courier –**

I take it you are not interested?

.

 **Hashirama to Tobirama, via owl –**

Has a girl named Sarada arrived at camp? Don't let Father kill her. Oh, and please don't kill her yourself.

P.S. Owl. There. Happy?

* * *

 **Butsuma to Ueno Castle, via owl and courier –**

Dispatch Hashirama. Also, any soldiers you can spare.

* * *

 **Lord Fukushima (Fire territory daimyo) to Madara, via personal messenger –**

There is something I wish to discuss with you. Do not disclose this to anyone, even your allies.

* * *

 **Chugetsu to Fire Alliance, via courier –**

We hold Senju Itama hostage and would be willing to negotiate an exchange.

* * *

 **Madara to Chugetsu, via crow –**

Secure the boy at your location for now. Discuss details soon. Also, I hear you have been inviting slavers to your camp. Daimyo may do so, but do not drag down our affiliate shinobi.

.

.

.

* * *

[Senju Sleeping Quarters, Fire Alliance Camp – Eve of Hostage Exchange]

.

Tobirama's seen this expression before, on his brother.

Smile bright.

Brows poised like thunderclouds about to clash.

When his brother was eight, Father got rid of their pet wild boar, Ton. It was a quiet affair. After a dinner no brother could eat, Hashirama had dug his fingers ragged, making Ton's grave for the bits of bone left in the kitchens. At the forest edge, Tobirama kept watch for adults, silently lamenting his brother's sweat-slick face under moonlight.

Ten years have passed—and much is the same. If Tobirama's like a granite wall, then Hashirama is cotton. Layered and heavy. Impossible to crack. Tobirama stands in the middle of their tent and waits for his brother to spill his secrets on the cold bed pallet.

"Sarada will be exchanged tomorrow, Tobi."

"Yes," he nods.

"Do me a favor."

" _Brother._ You shouldn't be concerned with an Uchiha."

"She saved Itama—"

"Her _clan."_

Hashirama smooths the wrinkles on his sheets, as if tracing a memory. "Sarada is Itama's friend."

"A friend," Tobirama deadpans. Then, he swings his Father's phrase, like a dull, old bludgeon: "Friends shift. Family remains." And like a pendulum in motion, he can't stop. "I know you suspect foul play at the hostage exchange, Brother, but can't you ignore it?"

"We can't—"

"She's an Uchiha. Itama's _ours."_

Dense chakra douses all the air in the tent. "You and Itama are more precious to me than _anything."_ Hashirama's jaw pulses, his gaze like a storm. "You _know_ how I felt, when Father forbid me from coming. When Father told me it was _for my own good."_

Perhaps it was, Tobirama thinks. But a father's love, like all things, is touched by the reality of their ongoing war. "Even now, Father is cautious for your benefit," Tobirama tries. The strain of his voice mirrors the tug in his chest. "And Father loves Itama, too. Enough to see him again."

Remorse curves his brother's back like gravity. The immense chakra retreats, dissipates.

"Itama was still sick? When he was captured?"

"He coughed," Tobirama admits.

But his brother wasn't asking for the answer. _Getting back a sick Itama is not enough for Father. Father has little incentive to play fair tomorrow at the hostage exchange._ In one conversation, Hashirama has laid out all the pieces; the rest can be filled in like a puzzle. Soon the resulting picture will stare them both in the face.

"Tobi, Sarada will be killed tomorrow."

There it is, quiet as a murmur.

The truth dawns for Tobirama. Anything inconvenient, potentially dangerous, Father eliminates. Be it pet boar, or friend. Pieces of the past week line up like a jigsaw. The Black Scroll nomination. Father's insistence that Tobirama be the one to cut Sarada before the mission. Tobirama remembers Father's nod, when the instruction was given. Sooner or later, the inevitable had to happen. _But that's the price, for the clan's future good,_ Tobirama rationalizes.

"Father's seen too much of her strength, to let her go back to the Uchiha."

"Move Sarada away. Far enough into Jounzo's territory."

 _"Brother."_

"A life for a life. Sarada for Itama. That's your brand of justice, isn't it?"

"Justice," Tobirama mutters. "You're clan heir. Don't throw away your future for empty ideals. That's stupid."

A sudden wind buffets the tent and blows out the candles, plunging them into darkness. His brother's voice cuts softly through the night.

"I'm not the only stupid one, Tobi."

Tobirama hears Hashirama rise from the pallet, then, a wick hiss. A new glow bathes the tent, and Tobirama watches a crooked grin grow on his brother's face.

"I'll find others. Together, we'll change the world."

"You don't have to change the world with an _Uchiha."_ Tobirama stumbles for words. "She's not… You don't…"

Once upon a time, before riverbanks and skipped rocks, Tobirama wouldn't feel this _guilt._ His brother is eighteen, and in ten years, much is unchanged. The subject of girls hasn't been broached between them since the disproof of cooties. But even so, this time may prove different. More dangerous.

Smiling, Hashirama misses the point.

"It's fine," he says. "We're not sending her back to the Uchiha front lines, Tobi. I've made the arrangements. You lead her to the base of the plateau. Lord Jounzo's promised transportation from there to his territory."

"What happens after? You fetch her from Jounzo?"

Hashirama side-steps. "So, deal?"

Tobirama frowns. _Like cotton._ "Only once I'm sure she's here to rescue Itama. It could all be an act."

"Fair enough. You'll see, tomorrow."

"There's another problem. The girl won't trust me enough to follow me down the mountain."

"Work on your people skills, Tobi."

"No."

"Should've made friends at the bonfire. What about my 'sake cup peace plan'?"

"She looked at me like I was going to poison her."

"You scowled the whole time, I bet."

"Don't _bet._ "

.

.

.

* * *

.

 **Triptych**

.

11

.

 _set to dry_

or

 _twenty-four hours in Whirlpool_

.

* * *

.

[Whirlpool Island, Southeast Estuary – Evening]

.

A sandy-haired man wades past the shallows, humming an off-key tune as he squelches through the mud, displacing reeds, insects, and wriggling pond scum. But fun in the mud is for a different season. Summer hermit crab hunting is over. Now, it's about catching the larger buggers. Tonight's evening salt marsh features birds with languid, scooping beaks, terrorizing fish in the tidal eddies.

 _Aha!_

Behind some tall thrushes glistens a rare treat.

Food chains are ruthless. This predator, busy catching flies, is now prey.

Frog legs are a delicacy, the man thinks. Perhaps even the Red Lady likes frog dishes. Admittedly, the Red Lady eats with the relish of an anorexic pigeon. Even so, her horrified grimaces are quite entertaining, as he brings worms, marsh beetles, or larvae. She thinks him misguided. _Deliciously_ misguided. And perhaps he is.

Because, as he swings the net down, the frog hollers:

"CRUELTY! ANIMAL CRUELTY!"

 _Better eat this one whole,_ he thinks. But before he can unravel the bandages on his hands, a sharp projectile slices the air in front of his nose. Dropping the net hastily, he turns to the shuriken's origin.

A pale, white-haired figure approaches, slogging through the cattails. There's a sheathed sword at his side and numerous other holsters around his sturdy armored body, but the most prominent thing about him are the narrowed, ruby eyes and wide, unhappy scowl.

At the sight of the stranger, the talking frog renews its squirming under the net with gusto. Then, with a mighty leap, the amphibian rips clean through the net and disappears down the white-haired man's throat, which expands and collapses like a puffer fish. Everything happens quicker than someone can say 'dinner'. Despite having stolen another man's meal, White-Hair doesn't look like he enjoyed it.

Still pale, but also now a bit green, White-Hair chokes out, " _I'm never_ _using Gamabunta again"_ , then adds hoarsely:

"Sorry my summons toad broke your net. But he thought you were going to eat him."

"I was."

White-Hair goes green again. "Sorry?"

"I _was_ gonna eat it. Looked plump enough for two meals."

White-Hair fights valiantly to control his gag reflex. Wins.

"You're a local?" asks White-Hair.

Divulging information to armed strangers is a no-no. Still, a man with a weak stomach can't be _that_ much of a threat. "Not a local," he reveals. "I'm a long-time transplant. People 'round here call me Munch."

"Well met. You live here, Munch?"

White-Hair waves a hand at the marsh cattails, which look no livelier than their usual droop. Munch, however, doesn't appreciate forced politeness. Never has.

"It ain't glamorous," Munch shrugs. "But it's enough to live on."

White-Hair seems to pause at this, so Munch quickly adds: "Though if yer planning on moving here, I gotta kill ya. Nothing personal. Resource scarcity's a bitch."

Looking mystified, White-Hair shakes his head, and in the process discovers some trailing marsh weeds in his hair. He pulls them away with a withered look that reveals Munch is quite safe from new neighbors. Good. The neighborhood is already a handful, as is. Even a weak man with a weaker stomach can rouse the ire of the locals, if he keeps tossing around his throwing stars and breaking other people's nets like earlier.

"Yer not from here," Munch hums. "Doesn't take fancy glasses to see that."

White-Hair's posture seizes, ever so slightly.

"I'm from the mainland" is the neutral reply.

"A mainland boy!" Munch chortles, as he splashes to recover his torn net. "Y'ever fish, White-Hair?"

"Tobirama."

" _Tobes_ it is," Munch enthuses. "C'mon, make up for yer froggie by helping me catch dinner. I got a girl at home to feed."

* * *

Fishing involves scooping slippery tarpons bare-handed from the waves along a hidden beach cove that is Munch's secret spot, away from the busy activity along the higher shoreline to the north, and away from the southernmost tips where some of his neighbors would squabble over prime territory. Along this private cove, smaller fish have been washed here by the whirlpools, while others are lured by reams of glossy kelp lining the baked rocks cemented in the pebbly sand.

Munch has no expectations for a mainlander to show aptitude in fishing, so he shouts half-hearted encouragements like "If we catch a lot, I'll even throw in a home-cooked meal for ya!"

As such, he's blown out of the water. No pun intended. After the twentieth fish is deposited into the pile along the shore, Munch figures the lightly charbroiled mainlander deserves a break. The sun has begun to dip into the ocean, painting the lapping waves in cascading ribbons of color. The whole beach front sparkles in gradients of blue and gold.

"Let's stop for today," Munch calls. "The Red Lady will be pleased."

At the water's edge, Tobirama swipes sand from his sunburned face. Looking thoughtful, he wrings out the wet ends of his trousers and asks: "The one at home? Your wife?"

Munch nearly rips a new hole into the net he's fixing.

 _"Tobes!"_ he gasps breathlessly, hands clutching the net to his chest. "Careful what you _say."_

Tobirama grows increasingly pink and puzzled.

"She runs all 'round the island." Munch gesticulates with his arms fanned wide. "Y'never know where she'll eavesdrop on ya."

A white eyebrow cocks up. "The Red Lady?"

 _Nosy mainlanders._

With a long-suffering sigh, Munch pools their catch together using bits of the ruined net and his shirt as a swaddle. Once, Munch was a mainlander himself. Though never quite so nosy. Munch has half a mind to rescind his earlier offer to feed Tobirama dinner, but thinks better of it. Indeed, the weight of their fishing bounty in his arms cheers him up again.

"Listen, Tobes, y'hungry? Dinner at my place tonight."

* * *

Far from the human sprawl that covers the northern and central hills, the southern rim of Whirlpool Island is a forested world. It's also a _dangerous_ world. The forest clans have lived on the island since the dawn of time, and all outsiders know well enough to leave them alone. After all, reciprocity is a golden rule around these parts. Thus, trekking through the thicket, Munch's curiosity grows. _What's a mainlander doing, mucking around the swamps?_ During the last stretch of the hike home, he asks:

"So why're y'here with yer froggie friend?"

Tobirama flits through several responses. Munch can tell by the movement of his eyes that the man settles on the truth. "I'm looking for someone," he replies.

"Yeesh. The civilized folk live up north, Tobes."

A pause. Then: "The person I'm looking for is also from the mainland."

Munch jumps a mossy ledge. "Lost a buddy?"

"No. Just someone I promised to keep safe."

Cryptic. Well, he can do cryptic, too. "Well, if that person's here, they're definitely _not_ safe," Munch cackles. Consternation creeps up Tobirama's face, so Munch swallows his next words. _If he's on this southern part, poor, poor soul. Probably already buried under marsh guck. Or skinned alive. Or now residing in a tiny clay jar. Though judging by Tobes' face, I shouldn't say this aloud._

"After searching a month," adds Tobirama. "We nearly gave up."

It's someone important, then, Munch thinks. But if it's someone important, why would they come all the way to the boonies of the boonies? Tobirama's fancy armor and fancy sword seem to be from a world away. "Hardly anyone turns up 'round here. For good reason too," Munch admits. "Seriously, did y'try north of here?"

Tobirama steps over a clump of ferns. "My brother and I divided up the island to search. He has business up north."

"So this guy's definitely on the island?" hums Munch. _  
_

"Girl, actually," says Tobirama. "Her caravan may have been ambushed. Fragments of cargo were found being traded along the shore. My summons toad finally caught a scent at the ferry landing to Whirlpool."

"Didn't know frogs could smell. I'll mask my odor next time I hunt one."

Conversation lulls after that.

Peeks of sunlight through foliage dim overhead, and the air grows full of tiny insects. Tobirama seems loathe to be impolite, but has to slap himself a few times, across his exposed ankles and neck. As the thicket becomes sparser, a mossy cave partially shielded by undergrowth vegetation comes into view. Propped up against the cave opening is the wooden plank, which looks ready to rot away at the faintest touch. Trailing tendrils of overgrown weeds have climbed the edges of the rock and wood to secure and decorate the door frame.

Munch is quite fond of the picture.

"Home sweet home!" he announces, and clambers up the slight hill to the entrance. "Stay out here, Tobes."

"Stay?" Tobirama looks about to protest.

"I gotta check if the Lady's home," Munch says. "Patience."

The inside of the cave is small. This suits both inhabitants fine, since there's just enough room to lounge, sleep, and most importantly, eat. There's a damp but clean smell throughout the space, with small trickling sounds of water hitting over the ceiling and dribbling down to the small pail in the corner. There, Munch makes out a girl's faint outline in the dark. She sits cross-legged on a makeshift woven pallet, her head bowed to her chest. The soft sound of breathing mingles with the drip-drip of the water collecting over the cave ceiling. _The Red Lady's fast asleep. She must've been working all night again._

Exiting silently, Munch slides the plank carefully behind him. He scuffles over some yew bushes to where Tobirama stands politely, red eyes darting quickly back to staring in the opposite direction. There's a new anxious, expectant look on the mainlander's face.

"Sorry," Munch declares with a paper-thin veneer of sympathy. "No visitors tonight."

Tobirama seems to weigh his next words. "This Red Lady, is she your lover?"

 _"Almighty Hachimon,_ no!" Munch yelps.

Confusion scrambles Tobirama's cool gaze. _Good. That's what he gets for being so nosy,_ thinks Munch. _The Red Lady warned me 'bout nosy people._ _Always ask her first, to see if she wants to meet someone._

"Family, then?"

"Ex-slave," corrects Munch, shuddering as he recalls the awful four hours when that was their relationship. The Red Lady had demanded all sorts of things from him. Like food and shelter. Like pen and paper. Something about keeping up her market value. It was lucky for him that she bought herself out so quickly with the delicious mollusks.

"Ex," Tobirama echoes. "Does she still work for you?"

"Y'ask a lot of questions," Munch grumbles. "She cooks, I guess. Beyond that, _I_ don't know her full schedule, so I couldn't tell ya. She keeps busy. Tries to chum it up with the neighbors by day. Further ruins her eyesight squinting in the dark all night. Me, I'm just a humble roommate, begging for scraps of food."

"Why do you call her Red Lady?"

"She's red. She's a lady," Munch quips in exasperation. "What other reasons are there?"

Tobirama digests this with a grave carefulness. "And how did you meet?"

"Almighty Hachimon brought her to me."

Cogs turn in the mainlander's white head. "Hachimon is a deity revered on the _other_ side of the continent," Tobirama muses aloud. "Something else could be at work here."

"Don't know. Don't care." Munch shoots a longing look at the cave entrance where he'd left the fish. "Oooh, why don't we eat outside? Let's make a campfire."

"When did you meet the Red Lady?"

"Eh," Munch fingers some detritus, scooping it between his fingers and testing for moisture. "Maybe a month ago."

"And how did—"

" _Argh, Tobes, stop!_ " Munch throws his handful of wet peat at Tobirama (who dodges), then blows a raspberry. "Come meet her tomorrow night, if yer so fascinated."

"What time—"

"Stop, I'm starving. _Let's eat!"_

* * *

.

[Whirlpool Island, Uzumaki Villa – Night]

.

Years have passed since Hashirama's seen Whirlpool Island.

The Uzumaki have done well. As evening on Whirlpool Island descends into night, a million stars light up the panorama. They stretch over the sky above, too. But it's the scene on the ground that quickens Hashirama's pulse. So densely packed is the glow of fiery lanterns, this place can hardly be a village. At the peak of the sloping road, the place looks like the bursting metropolis of Jounzo's ports. Each twinkling light is a hearth, a home, a business.

 _This is what a village should be,_ thinks Hashirama _._ If for nothing else than advice on governing a village, he should visit more often.

Only, there's a problem. A small one.

That, through the years, has grown to be less small:

His fiancée.

The thought of her—from the dim memory of a toddler throwing tantrums behind a door, to imagining her as newly thirteen—disturbs Hashirama. And not because any girl over the age of twelve frightens him, as Tobi used to jest. Hashirama comprehends political marriages. But if he had a choice in this, children could simply be children. Just as boys shouldn't be out killing each other, girls shouldn't be brokered off to allies.

Yes, it's hard to imagine a world vastly different from this one. But recent events on the continent kindle hope in his chest.

Cease-fire talks have begun.

Ueno's survived over months of siege. Outlasting enemies' expectations has given Ueno enough leverage to hold peace talks—talks which hold repercussions for every power on the continent. Naturally, it's not enough to hold peace talks without having the military and economic strength to back up one's bargaining position. As such, Father called for a strengthening of ties with an old, _non-continental_ ally: the Uzumaki.

A sealed _fuin_ map into the heart of the village has led to an enormous shrine. The main gate juts out of the ground in front of a small mountain. Red arches frame a garden lit with smoky candles dotting the steep hill. Stairs up to the main Uzumaki compound chip into the earth. Now descending the shrine steps is a litany of attendants in vermilion robes. To receive their guests, they carry numerous scrolls, which will seal and transport up the mountain the numerous gifts that Hashirama (well, Father) brought to curry favor.

It's sealing scrolls that make Uzumaki Ryuchiro, Uzumaki clan head, a powerful man in this era. Scrolls can be sold for money. And the Uzumaki have a monopoly on sales, while keeping the secrets of manufacture to themselves.

As Hashirama takes his first step into the shrine, he feels the map hum like a tuned instrument in his hand. He loosens his grip, and watches the scroll dissolve away into flecks of light that float up into the night sky.

* * *

.

[Whirlpool Island, Southeast Forests – Morning]

.

Every bird on the island is determined to wake Munch before noon, with unrelenting warbles. The Red Lady left earlier, leaving a frugal nuts and berries breakfast on the cave floor. So, as a good roommate, Munch focuses on lunch. He decides to check on his trail of hunting traps for captured wild game, while avoiding any larger-sized traps that the locals have set out for humans.

The first two of Munch's hunting traps yield bits of loose bracken. The third has some tail fluff off a woodland cretin. Coming up on his fourth trap (he'd allowed the Red Lady to rig it as a demo, so he has little faith in its success) he spots a mass of black feathers.

 _Lunch!_

Munch skips over to the bird struggling furiously in the netted trap. _Woah, what an_ ugly _quail. Maybe a woodpecker? A loon? Well, protein is protein._ He stoops to reach for the catch.

All he gets is a mouthful of now familiar summons smoke. A few feathers flutter to the forest floor—the only evidence that his meal ever existed.

"My lunch!" Munch mourns.

 _"Hey!"_ shouts someone from behind.

Still sullen, Munch turns to see a figure a few feet away. The newcomer is a bit shorter, and as raven as the disappeared bird. Black hair. Black eyes. And, Munch thinks enviously, he's most people's idea of smooth good looks. So Munch quickly looks for a physical flaw. _Ah. Duck-Hair._

Duck-Hair arrives to where Munch stands sadly inspecting some inedible feathers. "I saw that," he spits.

"That ugly quail entered my trap," Munch explains patiently. "Doesn't matter who saw it first."

"That's my _crow_ summons!" says Duck-Hair, disgusted. "Moron."

"Close. It's Munch," Munch replies, and receives a lordly stare angled down the young man's tilted nose. "Y'from the mainland or something? Y'got that prudish pasty look that I guess is popular there."

 _"Pas_ —never mind. Who are you?"

"Again, it's Munch. _Moron,"_ Munch replies cheerfully.

The scowl sweeps back. "What kind of name is Munch?"

Munch sniffs. "What's yer name then?"

"… Izuna."

"Pretty name," Munch admits.

Izuna deflates, though his expression is still pinched. "That cave over there… You live there?" He points in the direction of some yellowing ferns many feet away, which usually camouflage Munch's cave quite well. "I'm looking for a place to stay. The mosquitos here are terrible at night."

"Mosquitos are the least of it, Izumi," Munch shares, generously.

"It's Izuna."

After thirty seconds, during which everyone's mood grows increasingly foul, Munch says: "No lodging for ya. I get the feeling yer gonna get the boot as soon as the Red Lady comes home this afternoon. Then she'll yell at me fer letting strangers into the house."

"I can pay," says Izuna, as Munch's ears catch the tell-tale clink of coins at Izuna's midsection.

Still, Munch barks a laugh. "The Red Lady ain't interested in anything as common as money."

 _"What_ lady?" Izuna frowns.

"Nosy, all of ya." Munch's hand makes a shoo-shoo motion. "It's none of yer business."

This seems to upset Izuna so much Munch swears the guy's gaze goes red for a second. Literally.

 _How strange._

"If y'still need a place to stay," drawls Munch. "Come back tonight with yer fancy coins. We can even have a dinner party."

* * *

.

[Whirlpool Island, Uzumaki Guest Houses – Afternoon]

.

Hashirama begins unpacking with gusto, marveling as bulkier gifts like lavish silks poof out from scroll seals in their guest room. Soon, the room resembles his space back at Ueno Castle, with things laid about helter-skelter. A thin, round-faced man emerges from the annexed room with a deep green ceremonial haori. Laying it on the bed, the man begins folding and refolding the obi tie around the outer coat, muttering ' _And Touka said it was easy'_.

At the scene, Hashirama coughs. "I can dress myself, Gouda."

The retainer stares up, looking very much like a small, wounded animal.

"This is my job," Gouda says, in the same tone one would say: _"I'm going to eat a kunai now."_

Senju Gouda is a distant cousin, of the same age as Tobirama. He's not a great fighter. Additionally, his perpetual droopy expression makes him a hard sell to the fashionable feudal courts. However, Gouda's enterprising mother had begged Lord Butsuma to let her son accompany Hashirama to Whirlpool. After all, good etiquette requires that a rich young master be attended by servants.

"No, really. I'll tie it myself," says Hashirama. "What kind of man can't tie his own obi?"

"You, Young Master."

 _Ah, well._ "Don't call me that. No one will care if the knot's wrong, Gouda."

"Or it could be a fatal flaw."

"I'm only human."

His cousin shuffles the emptied suitcases to the doorway. "People don't want 'human', Young Master. They want superhuman. Someone they can worship in these hard times."

Clearing his throat, Hashirama begins manhandling his obi for practice. "Anyhow, my fiancée will be veiled when I meet her. Whirlpool custom. She can't fault what she can't see."

"But when you lift the esteemed lady's veil?"

"By then, she'll be dazzled by my good looks."

"I see," says Gouda in a way that suggests he really doesn't.

"Have a little faith."

"Of course, Young Master. Please do send my mother my ashes, after this trip is over. She's even scarier than Lord Butsuma. But I take solace in the thought that I'll already be happily dead, after your father is through with me."

Hashirama sighs, as he gets the obi to more or less stay around his waist. "Father will get his alliance. I'll wine and dine with the relatives, do the rituals, and hope she likes both me and my obi… Did I pack my shaving razor?"

Gouda begins to search through the betrothal gifts: reams of fine fabrics, traditional tea cakes, jars of expensive salve. Eventually, he produces a razor, and, glancing up with a rare look of interest, asks:

"And that you also like her, Young Master?"

Hashirama pauses. "What?"

"Don't you hope that _you'll_ like _her?"_

 _Only human._ Hashirama turns to the window. Afternoon light washes over expensive furnishings and illuminates the glossy ink overlay of careful seal work.

"I won't reach for the moon, Gouda. Not if I can have everything else."

"Very wise, Young Master," is the dour reply. "Maybe you could introduce me to one of her friends?"

 _"Gouda."_

"As long as they don't spit in my face, I'm fine with it."

* * *

.

[Whirlpool Island, Southern Forests – Late Afternoon]

.

When Munch notices several hunting traps pried open and empty, during the last of his daily rounds, he's a bit worried that the neighbors are at work again. The last time he went to go fetch his wild game back, they'd chased him out with golden, glowing tridents. For forest-dwelling folk, they sure could throw those things.

The Red Lady didn't come home at noon, when Munch went back to check. Nor after, which is another sign that Munch may need to brave the glowing tridents after all. Even so, his moral fiber is at its best when he's consumed enough actual fiber. He spends the rest of the afternoon foraging for edible vegetation, before tromping back to the cave.

Someone else has gotten there first.

Two someones—

—squared off against each other, one on each side of the clearing like they're about to rip up the entire landscape (including his precious home) at the drop of a pin.

Munch has seen rabid dog fights before in his homeland. He's even seen brothers pitted against each other in fights to the death. Messy, inefficient affairs. Having enlightened himself from all that, Munch believes strangers are often two peas in a pod. Two people can be friends, if only they got to know one another. Age, height, hair color don't matter.

As a cultured man, Munch rather enjoys testing this theory.

Project: Beta

Subjects: Two pale, nosy mainlanders.

"Tobes! Izumi!" Munch declares. "Y'all made it to my dinner party after all!"

Neither registers this fantastic invitation. They snarl and lift their lips, and Munch is a bit miffed. The Red Lady's cooking is _divine,_ but they don't know that yet. So he calls their names again:

"Tooooobes! Izumiiii!"

Still nothing.

Well, not _nothing._

Escalation. Intense eyeing and circling becomes intense eyeing and circling _with swords drawn_. Munch isn't sure how to lecture two dinner guests about fighting in front of someone's rather flimsy doorway. So he decides to do the next best thing.

He explodes.

* * *

Five hundred kilojoules of raw energy blasted out from one's pores is enough to make anyone within the vicinity flinch, or, if close enough, lose a limb. The smell of it alone can give one headaches. To Munch, it smells like bananas.

 _Ah, so sweet._

Even those birds stop warbling, for a moment.

"If y'wanna fight," says Munch, in the dead silence. "Take it back to the mainland."

Stunned, both fighters lower their weapons and turn to peer down at the new four-foot crater in the forest floor.

A long, awkward silence ensues.

"We can't," Izuna mumbles, finally. "The mainland's off limits."

"There's been an official cease-fire called," says Tobirama, like he wants to bury himself in the crater.

But the crater's already occupied. Its maker sits cross-legged in the center, demurely fixing all his bandages and raggedly clothes as he blinks up innocently. "Good, good," says Munch. "Take this opportunity to get to know each other, then."

"H-How did you do that?" Izuna looks over Munch's steaming body, as if he's trying to scan the secrets from sight alone. He bends closer to the mouth of the hole. "The noise was one thing. But you blew away so much earth. How did my eyes not _see_ it?"

"Well, y'were too busy making goo-goo eyes at each other," says Munch.

 _"Goo—"_ Izuna starts, trembling.

"That was a real explosion," Tobirama cuts in, his gaze still ghosting over Munch's torn robe. "But you look unharmed. How?"

"Go on," says Munch, rather proudly. "Ask me another question I won't answer."

Both of them eye each other suspiciously.

Then, as if rehearsed in perfect unison, they say:

" _Where's the Red Lady?"_

* * *

Once he's heard their stories, Munch actually _cackles._

No one seems to much appreciate the humor of the situation besides him, but that only makes the situation funnier.

"Yer looking for the _same_ person?" he guffaws.

This twists up both men's face _just so._ Grinning, Munch backtracks, summarizing their story.

"So you both think" (and here, he has to stop to laugh again) "that the Red Lady is your long lost girl" (a steely-faced Tobirama has to pat him on the back, to stop his hacking) "and you're both so desperate you'd fight each other over the _same_ girl. _Hah!"_

"Not quite." Tobirama steps back peevishly, and leaves Munch to his hacking. "We're looking for the same person, but it's not like we're competing—"

"It's not even a competition," scoffs Izuna. "She's one of ours, you sc—"

"Now, now. No name-calling before dinner," chides Munch, as he wipes tears of mirth. "Y'know what'd be great? If it is the Red Lady! And if she's home, listening to every word from inside that cave right now! I'll bet she's lacing poison into each of yer fish, as we speak. I don't think _I'd_ wanna go home with some crazy stalkers."

Both 'stalkers' blink, as if the thought hadn't occurred to them that the girl in question would refuse to be found.

"We don't know for sure that it's Sarada," mutters Tobirama. "You said the Red Lady came here a month ago?"

"Yup," chirps Munch. "Been getting fatter ever since, off her cooking."

Here, Izuna looks vaguely homicidal again. "You've been using an _Uchiha_ as your household _servant?"_

"Ex-slave."

Izuna's eyes flash weirdly again. It feels familiar, Munch thinks. "She cooks for room and board," he continues. "Guess she loves the marsh mud aesthetic. Or likes the crazy neighbors. Beats _me_ why she'd live here, when she doesn't even like eating larvae."

Both men look at each other in alarm, then look away as if burned.

"Anyways, yer in for a treat tonight. What did she call it?" Drool begins to collect in Munch's mouth. "Pwalee? Poelé? It's magical. Like, crispiest fish skin I've ever had."

"So," Tobirama says, voice flat. "You've let her stay with you for a month because of the food."

"What's better than food?"

"An Uchiha wouldn't consent to be used in that manner. And with the Mangekyou…" Izuna's head tosses from side to side as if he can't fathom the conversation. "You're lying. The Red Lady must be someone else. Or she doesn't exist. _You're_ the crazy one, not your neighbors."

 _Oh, **that's** a new low. _

Before he can think better of it, Munch crosses his arms and shouts:

"Yoooo! Red Lady!"

* * *

The two slim hands that pry open the wooden plank at the cave come as a surprise.

Even to Munch.

"Stop calling me that," calls a female voice.

 _"Original?"_ Munch gapes, as Tobirama and Izuna squint very hard, as if disbelieving.

The young girl fully emerges from the cave, grumbling: "That's no better." She looks around ten, with gangly limbs, a petite frame, and an unkempt red nest of hair. She's also dressed in red silk robes that look far too big on her, particularly in the sleeves. Arms crossed, she glares from uphill at the blinking men in the forest clearing.

"But 'Red Lady One' is such a mouthful," Munch replies. "And not the appetizing kind of mouthful."

"Who's this?" asks Izuna. "This isn't who lives with you?"

"Red Lady One is the first Red Lady," explains Munch. "She lives on the other side of the island." Then he adds, under his breath: "Thank Hachimon."

"I saw that. Aren't you happy to see me?" the girl snaps.

Ignoring her, Munch continues. "Red Lady Two is older. This one's a brat. But neither've got any womanly assets to speak of."

The red-haired girl doesn't seem concerned with being called a brat. "You should be thankful I came to visit you, Munch." She bounces down to come stand between the three men. Though they tower over in height, the girl still manages to stare haughtily down her nose at them. Izuna looks somewhat impressed.

"So thankful," sighs Munch.

"Yes, I'm sure you missed me."

"Delusional," Munch mouths to the other two men.

"To show your sincerity, let me stay the night. I'm saving my clan from 'ru-in-a-tion.'" The girl says the last word carefully, dragging out the syllables.

"Not just playing hooky on lessons again?" Munch frowns, as if her request presents huge difficulties. "Just wait 'til I find out yer name one day, and tell yer fancy-pants parents."

The girl's expression turns dark. "No lessons today. Today's the day I'm supposed to meet my future husband. But I've been working on my escape all week. That girl you also call Red Lady volunteered to help."

Munch's eyes light up.

"So Project Alpha worked!" he gushes.

* * *

.

[Whirlpool Island, Uzumaki Compound – Evening]

.

Hashirama enters the palatial structure of the Uzumaki's inner compound. Entrants are forbidden from lacing their feet with chakra. The seals along the floor sucking up chakra make sure of it. As such, Hashirama ignites a symphony of tell-tale squeaks along the specially designed floorboards, which resound into the ceiling and across the entire Uzumaki compound.

If one listens hard enough, the squeaks sound like—

 _Idi-ot-idi-ot-idi-ot!_

Every retainer likely has pressed up their ears against the sides of the maze-like compound walls. Doubtless, even dignified, crotchety Uzumaki relatives are listening in as he wanders through the private halls of the clan head's family quarters. Hashirama has already wined and dined with them all day, and, though they've each wished him good health, over half of them would give their last chewing tooth to see Hashirama slip up and do something stupid. Then they'd tell Father, and demand more gifts.

The halls stretch on, walls somber but carefully opulent. Lustrous crushed oyster shells overlay the wooden beams overhead with intricate lacquered spirals. The clan head's family doesn't so much live here, than they invite guests to come and grovel in the claustrophobic setting. Revealingly musty, these halls smell of incense and other expensive, lordly scents.

Hashirama steps over the threshold into the inner sanctum. This is where the most important guests are taken. The sanctum is an elaborate room with gilded panels featuring dragons and other formidable sea creatures painted along the walls. Woven tatami have been replaced with a long stretch of red fabric, signaling a journey a man takes toward his wife. _The red string of fate._ Hashirama has been given a crash course in the Uzumaki lore. At the end of the makeshift fabric should sit his fiancée.

True to accounts, a veiled figure sits at the end of the room.

She's in a simple chair, on a raised platform. Behind her, an angry-looking dragon looks ready to leap off the wall panel. The dragon _could_ come to life and bite Hashirama's head off should he perform the next few steps of this ritual poorly. He wouldn't put it past the Uzumaki to have sealed a mythical beast into a wall panel.

Gingerly, he puts one foot on the ledge, then lifts his weight onto the platform.

Silence.

No more idiot-squeaks, for now.

 _Breathe. Say how sorry you are about this arrangement. Hide your obi knot with one hand._

He's about to start, when a voice comes from under the veil:

"Sorry to disappoint, but I intend to call this off."

His polished speeches shatter in an instant.

That _voice._

(' _Don't forget your promise.')_

From the silence, it's clear she suspects something's off.

"Do anything stupid," comes her swift follow-up. "And I'll punch."

Softly, Hashirama's fingers alight on the veil. He maneuvers the opposite edge down, to reveal chin, mouth, nose. The girl's features are carefully painted. Red mouth. Red cheeks. The gloss of _henge no jutsu_ transforms her hair to the same vivid scarlet.

What of her eyes? Would they flash scarlet?

But he doesn't need to see more. The features that have been revealed are familiar enough to prompt a near-heart attack. The 'idiot-idiot-idiot' squeaks resume full force—this time, inside his head.

"A-Ah," says Hashirama, nearly edging off the platform. "So it _is_ you."

A horrid pause ensues.

She opens her mouth:

"Why are you here?"

"Why are _you_ here?"

"I asked you first."

"Miss Mirror," Hashirama murmurs. "You're safe."

"No thanks to you," is the scoff, followed by the tiniest ghost of a smile.

"I know," he says, rueful. "I'm here to bring you back with me."

Another horrible pause. The cavernous mouth on the dragon painting looks almost welcoming.

"How _dare_ you."

Not a bluff, this time. Real anger.

So Hashirama says, softly:

"I dare."

"You—"

"Because I've kept my promise."

Her white knuckles nearly rend the veil's tassel. Still, he risks it, tugging the entire veil away, revealing wide, scarlet eyes. He sees his own face—fearful but sure ( _only human_ )—spin inside those eyes.

"Sarada," he says. "Come build a village with me."

.

.

.

 _tbc_

.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu:_ my immense gratitude to _sanatoria_ , for the proof and beta this chapter. Remaining errors are, as always, mine. Mosey over to _sanatoria_ 's profile to read some wonderful stuff, both whimsical and gasp-inducing.

 _Notes:_ the Houzuki clan settled in Kiri _after_ the Warring Clans Era. / Nitroglycerin explosives can smell like bananas. / Hachimon that Munch worships is based on the Shinto god, Hachiman, god of earth whose symbolic animal is the dove. Hint. / Squeaking "chirping" floors are purposeful features of Japanese castles.

 _Next up:_ the (last?) arc of Triptych.

I've gotten more feedback than expected on this journey's end. Dear readers, could I offer instead deleted extras for the world of Triptych? If so, drop a line. As always, your comments are like nitroglycerin to heart angina.


	12. pigment 1

_._

 _A team is made up of three parts—the heart, the brain, and the soul._

 _I don't know if it's Mitsuki or me that's the brain or soul, but Boruto's definitely the heart._

 _As I uncovered more of Papa's past, I'd been terrified._

" _What would you do, if I left?"_

" _I'd wait for you."_

" _You wouldn't chase me?"_

" _No," he said. "I'd know you would come back."_

* * *

.

 **Triptych**

.

12

.

 _starting_

 _at the finish_

.

* * *

"Sarada. Come build a village with me."

From this close—his chin inches from my forehead— I don't need glasses to see clearly. The bow of his mouth wavers, grin crooked and perilous, propped up by increasing proportions of bravado.

So I let the silence linger.

To test Hashirama. Maybe to test myself. Dark eyes are cast over mine, like pools of water reflecting… who? Someone worthy? Someone brave? Or just a half-blind girl, easy to string along? Hashirama and I—we no longer pretend we're servant and noble awkwardly sharing a room at Ueda castle. But I wonder if we're not still pretending at _something._

Words surge up my throat like bile. Hashirama's whole face scrunches as I open my mouth. I know he expects refusal. Even I expect myself to shoot him down. Between us, there's confusion, anxiety, betrayal. But most of all, empathy.

"Hashirama, why build a village?"

Does the Shodaime also worry about the right thing to do? Or is he like Naki, who does what he wants? I had thought Konoha to be my answer to both. But this era has tested me; mined dusty memories of Konoha's rumor mill whispering about my family. They said it was my fate to waver toward Konoha. Disloyalty, in my nature. Well, it wasn't in my _nurture._ I wanted to prove them wrong by becoming the first Uchiha hokage.

Now, I wonder. Can I lead anyone—much less a village? If _leading_ means making sacrifices like Butsuma, becoming cold like Tobirama, putting on masks like Hashirama, then is it worth the cost? Must I be as shrewd as Madara, as rigid as Izuna? Here, I pause. I think of all I've already done, and all I've chose not to. Maybe I already am those things.

My fingers grip the edge of my seat as I wait.

"I…"

"You?" I breathe. Itama's final coughs ring in my ears.

Finally:

"I dreamed it up. As a child."

His voice is very small.

"It's been harder than I thought, to let go."

Too small for a god of shinobi.

Far too late, I realize. Hashirama is not yet the man who will become Shodaime. Or maybe this is what it means, to be Hokage. To be a shinobi. Thoughts collide inside my brain. Is it fine for ninja to behave like children? To have dreams that we hold on to? To try to do right, even though we don't know what it is? _Right now, what I want is…_

"Hashirama, I—"

"Wait!" Hashirama's palm scrubs over his eyes. He twists away as if he's wringing himself out like a towel, his raven head shaking vigorously. "This is more stressful than I thought. Could you wait to give me an ans—"

" _No."_

Wide eyes peek from behind his fingers. "… No?"

"No," I sigh, softer.

A typhoon has already been released from my chest; these are mere drifts after. Besides, Hashirama's already past stressed, he's _flummoxed_. Any vestige of his careful mask has been blown away, and the man standing here is a wide-eyed, open book. Not in the way that his guise of Lord Murata always seemed. But in a way that feels awkward and exposed, like something smooth and comfortable has been stripped away to reveal rough-hewn sandpaper. The man in front of me struggles to fill the silence. Only the force of Hashirama's stubborn optimism gives him (incoherent) words.

"Y-You mean no… like no, you won't wait to answer me?"

"I mean—" carefully, I enunciate every word "—No. As in, no, I'm not going back with you."

"Ah." The crease of his brow is accented in the manor's dim lighting. "You mean you're not coming back to the war camp? That's fine. The tents are being taken down anyways—"

"I'm not going back to the Mainland."

Rapid blinking. "… Not with me?"

"Not at all."

" _Ever?"_

"You're deaf. I'm blind," I quip, too tired to keep being angry. Madara's words from that day, overlooking the battle at the tower, sound in my head. _'Illusions are built from great sorrow. Yet we persist in chasing them.'_

Something clogs my throat, expanding.

I swallow it down.

"Give me time."

* * *

Time is a tricky thing. Things change. Other things refuse to change.

It's been over a month.

The hostage exchange was a disaster—one with too many side deals, too many unruly clans gone rogue. As much as the casualties from the mountain landslide made morale among the soldiers decrease, the aftermath of the event saw the reputation of two young ninja increase. Uchiha Madara. Senju Hashirama. Their names are now synonymous with the best _._ The future of the mercenary world rest on them.

In contrast, the two hostages—one Senju boy, one Uchiha girl—slip through the seams of the story. He's dead. She's dead. That's the official story. Naturally, people pointed fingers. Envoys and head hunters were sent out to gather evidence of what _actually_ happened at the hostage exchange. Only then, the next big event was already underway.

Cease-fire.

Cease-fire, the daimyo said, was pragmatic. War was expensive. Evenly matched opponents fighting for too long was a sign of bad governance, as enlisted soldiers winnow the countryside's grain stores and the season of harvest begins to creep up with few workers in the fields. For a few days, all activity around camp stopped. Well, not _all._ Clans leveraged their spy network—merchants, innkeepers, riffraff on the streets. False leads trickled in. Belated, vague intel.

A shred of truth floated around the shinobi clans: a Ryugu merchant fisherman had ferried a strange, mismatched couple across the strait to Whirlpool Island. The male passenger was a scruffy beggar in his thirties. His companion was a girl in scarlet robes. Only, the beggar had a reputation on the shoreline. _Dangerous._ Within the week, the girl would surely be dead.

Only, she's not dead. She's not even missing. Here's the short of it.

I survived.

And I've been busy. Finding and stopping the Otsutsuki was supposed to be my biggest hurdle in this era. The pendant I'd found off the man at the battle field had hung from my neck, close to my heart. But after I'd been deposited along the sea side, the pendant had been gone. Which means my ties are gone now. Ueno's coin. Hashirama's die. And I've given Haruka's red silk robes away to the young Uzumaki heiress, Mito.

I'm back to the beginning. Only, it feels like the beginning of the end, somehow. Time and distance have given me hindsight—ironic, since I'm half-blind without glasses. Now that I'm at Whirlpool, I'll turn to the Uzumaki Clan.

To offer the Uzumaki a proposal.

Losing my sight has given me perspective. Maybe I don't need the original founders—who are mired in war, chained to their clans, and only reined in by temporary cease-fires called by their daimyo.

I can start a village myself.

* * *

A cool chill blasts across the courtyard. Unfettered by bright sun, the island's cold winds pick up after noon. Sitting high on its small mountain, the Uzumaki shrine overlooks a panoply of cluttered cottages where the clan families live. Further down is the Uzumaki manor, near the foot of the mountain. And further still, fanning all around, is the village itself.

But up here, at the apex, shrine workers in layers of exquisite brocade dance like leaves wafted by wind. They match the trees—scribes, servants, shrine maidens, all dressed in shades of goldenrod, tending to the scattered green leaves that have started to curl with the shades of autumn.

Fall is early this year. Too early. Or perhaps spring dragged long.

A leaf floats down to the edge of the shade of the towering oak behind me. Its crisp edges show more orange than green. I've lost track of the month since I've been here. Going from place to place, dealing with different climates, shinobi that control weather—it's small wonder. But being out of touch with the season is the least of my problems.

A pink and brown blob approaches.

Soon, I make out a shrine worker, sweeping errant leaves that have fallen by the edge of my sedan, a resplendent palanquin that puts to shame all those old-timey one-person carriages I've seen as an Academy student wandering by musty tourist center exhibits outside of the Land of Snow. They say that some princesses still traveled in this style even in Papa and Mama's genin days, but with sleek new trains criss-crossing the Five Great Nations, princesses could book larger private spaces in my era. Now I see why this mode of travel went out of style.

I'm not claustrophobic, but I'm starting to grow bored of tracing the swirling embroidered patterns on the inside of my narrow space with my right big toe. The box-like carriage has three by three feet in floor space, and is only tall enough for sitting or kneeling. My cramped quarters are comfortable enough thanks to the cushions along the inside walls, but unfortunately, this mode of travel doesn't let me observe much of the outside.

The shrine worker pauses his sweeping and stoops, as if to catch a glimpse inside the palanquin.

I shrink back from the narrow slit that is the only window.

From somewhere behind my sedan, my attendant Horio barks:

"Back to work, Nezu!"

The broom swiftly resumes movement. I hear "Sorry, Elder Horio" and watch the outline of Nezu scurry away.

Heavier steps shuffle next to my sedan. Through the window slit, Horio's wide girth is encased in cream-colored robes refracting off the sun. He looks like a shiny egg.

"Don't encourage the _help_ , Lady Mito," Horio puffs, as if I've somehow seduced the sweeper despite being hidden inside the sedan. "You're our future. That means you act befittingly."

Ironic, really. Acting befittingly means saying very little, showing very little. Thanks to this, it's been almost simple to masquerade as Uzumaki Mito, the only child of the clan head. Meaningful conversation, acknowledgement of others, even walking on my own two feet: these are _not_ befitting.

Therefore, even a half-blind person like me can pull off this disguise.

"Our sacrifices shall soon pay off..." Horio makes a satisfied clucking sound.

From inside my sedan, I roll my eyes. _Here it comes_ —the attendant's favorite soliloquy.

"...True, you'll have to follow that Senju firstborn to the _Mainland."_ Horio's arms clutch his impressive belly, as if the thought of the Mainland makes him physically ill. "The boy wants a new village over there. Well, at least we can take charge of it. Heaven knows those barbarians can't govern properly."

I pause tracing the swirl pattern inside my sedan.

To tell the truth, Uzumaki Horio's words seem _almost_ justified. What I have seen of the outside world, beyond palatial rooms and stuffy sedans, has been magnificent. The northern tip of Whirlpool is full of bustling markets, well-paved streets, and frequent, flowing music and dance mingling with the sounds of children chanting what sound like school lessons from the large bay windows of many-storied buildings. This place makes both the Senju and Uchiha towns look like the boonies, and makes peasant life in Ueda and Aida seem like a moral indignity.

A sudden pang of loneliness hits me. Stubbornly, I shake it off, peering outside my slit window to distract myself. I try my best to become engrossed in watching colorful blobs of shrine workers bustle about the crest of the hill.

The shadow of the oak tree stretches longer into the afternoon.

Four men arrive in identical robes. They kneel in front of my palanquin, then wordlessly foist up the wide beams below my sedan onto their broad shoulders. From here, they will carry me up the worn steps carved into the mountainside, as is tradition for the Uzumaki clan head's family members. Multiple shrines dot the mountain. Right now we are on our way to the shrine at the very top. From what I've gathered, these temples honor the shinigami that the Uzumaki believe guide the deceased to the afterlife. An Uzumaki's role is part-worshiper, part-priest for the rest of the island.

My entourage winds up the mountain where the path curves into lush woodland. Dappled sun plays across the faces of travelers taking the same path to light candles at the moutain side shrines. The people wave and bow at the sight of my carriage. I squint at what appears to be the end of a long line of blurry, flesh-colored faces. As we move closer, I recognize him.

Sky blue robes.

The familiar outline of a grin.

My palanquin moves briskly, and we pass him.

But even with my bad eyes, there's no mistaking the way his clear tenor voices "Miss _Mito"_ as the sedan passes.

I close my eyes.

It's been two days.

' _Come build a village with me.'_

Senju Hashirama is nothing if not persistent.

After all, gamblers are addicts.

* * *

As we wind further up the mountain, my entourage and I are soon alone in the cool shade of a forested world. We arrive at a shrouded dip in the mountainside, where an old knotted tree has laid itself like a bench across dewy ferns. The carriage I'm in is laid carefully at the side of the tree stump. Then, my attendants take a well-deserved break to sit on the horizontal tree trunk, where they wipe their sweat with their billowing sleeves.

I open my mouth to say thanks, but halt. Voice manipulation is still not my strong suit. Besides, Uzumaki Mito doesn't seem like the type of girl to say thank you to "the help."

My internal debate still rages, when a sudden cracking sound splits the birdsong of the forest.

Something hurtles through the trees, hissing horribly.

I press my face to my tiny window. One attendant cries out. I can't make out his face, but I imagine it contorts painfully. His arms clutch his throat and his neck and face purple.

"Protec—"

The second attendant never finishes his sentence. While the remaining two men flee through the bushes, their companions crash to the forest floor.

My foot has just kicked through the side of the carriage when the vacated tree trunk groans, and begins ferociously sprouting new tangles of branches.

Like a live thing, the trunk twists itself up around my sedan.

Everything goes dark.

Three hard knocks thump against new wood.

 _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

Several heartbeats later, I gather chakra to my palms. Wood creaks on the other side of the sedan wall as I push, gritting my teeth, my shoulders leaning in. The casing around my palanquin folds, wood splinters, and light floods back into my world. I gather my fists to my face, ready.

"Hey," greets the lone figure in sky-colored robes.

I ignore Hashirama, dropping to my knees and putting a hand to the first of the fallen attendants, then the second. Both bodies have gone into shock. They're not dead, but their neural systems will take time to fully recover. Numbly, I twist their customary Uzumaki long sleeves across their chests like blankets. Breathing deep, I try to release the buzzing tension in my body.

"Did you catch who did this?"

"I sensed two people." Hashirama surveys the deceptively scenic nature surrounding us. "I think I scared them off."

"Scram then," I toss out. "With you gone, they'll come back. Then _I'll_ give them a piece of my mind."

A branch snaps underfoot as Hashirama backs away a step.

"Carry these two down the mountain," I add stiffly. "I'm going to investigate."

Hashirama's hand moves at the edge of my vision, where it hovers, just before it can catch my wrist.

"But you can't see well?" Hashirama says haltingly.

"I see fine."

"You're squinting."

"Not your problem."

Hashirama's outstretched hand falls away. "Why're you acting like this? I'm giving you time, like you asked." He fists his fingers through his raven hair, then adds, soft: "Is it because of how the Fire Alliance has treated you? How I…?"

He doesn't finish.

 _Maybe. Yes._

I like to think I can control my emotions. But everything I try to say comes out rougher than intended. Stinging with embarrassment, I look up to fanning treetops. "That doesn't matter now. I'm going to find who's after me. Or maybe, who's after Mito."

Hashirama turns away with a cough. "You do make a convincing double."

A ham-handed statement, clearly intended to cheer me up. Right now, only my hair color is correct.

"She's shorter," I grouse.

"Well, you look how I wanted Mito to look."

I pretend I'm deaf as I say, loudly: "I'll leave these two to you. I'm going to search the area."

Maybe it's an excuse to escape. Pushing out my chakra, I focus on the mountain air. Tiny signs of life buzz within my radius, as I extend my stored chakra beyond the range we were taught in basic field training. Some ninja are naturally attuned to sense presences. I'm proficient when I'm calm, but rubbish when I'm agitated. As such, I take it upon myself to get away from Hashirama. The first several hundred feet down the mountain are easy.

Then, I gracefully snag a branch and fall.

Not fall, as in hit the forest floor. Instead, the earth collapses under my feet and I'm deposited ten feet to land in a splintering, twiggy, leafy mess. Sharp pain shoots up my right leg. My foot has landed awkwardly. Reining in my temper, I look up to examine the pit. The soil's been excavated in a smooth, sloping dome—too uniform and even to be the work of physical labor.

This handiwork, I recognize.

Similar pits exist on the southern part of the island. As Munch has told me while we set our own hunting traps, the forest people 'dig' traps all over the island, using seals that vacuum away whole chunks of earth. The ingenious trigger is the seal being touched (it's usually a nearby branch, or even leaf) by the victim. Replacing the earth is also a simple task, which the forest tribes do often to hide their tracks.

These seal masters are not Uzumaki. But apparently, they can do just as much, if not more. I'm no stranger to fuinjutsu. Chakra seals. Curse seals. Kami seals. But I am a stranger to almost everything on this island, from the delicate curled lattice-structure of Uzumaki seals, to the unique hum of life-infused chakra that coats this pit. On this island, seals form the foundation of their military, commerce, healthcare. I would give my eyeteeth to soak in this knowledge—and enlist whoever I can to use this to make a new Konoha.

Last but not least, these seals may be able to fix my glasses.

I'd kept shards of my crushed glasses safe in my pocket pouch, until I'd gotten hold of a miniature sealing scroll within Uzumaki manor and deposited the pieces there instead. My expensive robes have lined pockets, where I keep the one-inch scroll constantly. As the constantly surveilled Mito, I don't want to leave anything lying around. Much less something from the future that would blow my cover.

Snapping twigs sound overhead.

At first, I expect Hashirama's followed me. But then two vaguely familiar voices ring out:

"We got her?"

" _Quiet."_

"Sorry, Elder. But you said she can't see well."

"But she hears fine _,_ Rat."

Instantly, I crouch down into a limp curl, feigning unconsciousness. _That voice!_ _It's Elder Horio! And a young rat… rat… nezumi… Nezu? The sweeper that approached the sedan?_ Briefly, I contemplate jumping up from the pit, but I should heal my twisted ankle first. My hand glides under a pile of leaves to my right leg.

Just a few seconds delay is still too long. New scuffling sounds come from above, and another voice rings out, more distant than the previous two.

"Sa—Mito! You around here?"

 _What. An. Idiot._

On reflex, a part of me slaps myself for calling the god of shinobi such a thing. Although… that part of me has been shrinking ever since that day in the Senju tent, around the table with the daimyo. Now, I realize it's almost disappeared. Putting weight on my healed leg, I lace my feet with chakra and ascend from the pit.

Hashirama's chakra spikes as I land a foot away from him.

Belatedly, I realize my Sharingan is on. My head aches from the influx of sensory information as I take in the dew drops on the foliage, the curl of ferns and the smattering of decayed tree bark—it's a strange thing, to have a heightened version of _poor_ vision. The nature around us is a distorted mess of jumbled visual cues.

"You followed me," I accuse.

My Sharingan catches Hashirama's Adam's apple, bobbing. "Yeah, but—"

"Shouting my name."

"Technically—"

"And you scared off the people who made this pit."

He blinks. "What pit?"

Whirling, I turn back around. The ground is carpeted in dead leaves and moss, and perfectly even.

There's no hole in sight.

* * *

The next morning arrives as if nothing happened.

I consider tracking down Elder Horio and Nezu, but there's little way to initiate contact with either party. My storm cloud disposition scares off several maids when they try to inflict their daily morning hairbrushing on me. I'm no mood to do the once tolerable, even welcome, stuff: getting dressed by attendants, eating delivered meals, sitting through lessons for literacy, arts, and history from a droning private tutor.

But this same tutor administers a small dose of the good stuff: _fuinjutsu_ , the art of sealing. It's doubtful the self-righteous Uzumaki would teach this to outsiders, so I suppose I won't reveal my true identity just yet.

Besides, I don't want to leave on a goose chase.

Uzumaki Mito and I had a pact. The strange redheaded girl owes me several favors once I successfully pretend to be her for a few more days. But beyond this tit for tat arrangement, I've grown to empathize with her situation. In Mito's spare time, she stayed confined to her part of Uzumaki manor, away from strangers, away from even her own father—Uzumaki Ryuchiro.

Maybe that's why Mito seemed familiar. Growing up, I rarely saw Papa. Some Academy teachers used to theorize that's why I was such a sourpuss. But the effects of Mito's absent father manifested in even stranger ways. The first time I met the clan heiress, she had popped out of one of Munch's fishing baskets in our cave, where she'd been hiding for _hours._ By way of explanation, she claimed she liked small spaces and the smell of fish. (Shikadai has been telling me for years that Boruto and Himawari inherited their sanity from the Hyuga. I finally suspect there's some truth to that.)

Munch had pronounced Mito and I to be "two humps of a camel." Whatever that means.

Still, if _oddness_ correlates with absentee fathers, Munch's family situation must be in a league of its own. Most of what that guy says and does is incomprehensible. But Munch is a nice enough individual. Since he first found me on the beach shore, he's given me food and shelter. I'm convinced he can't be all bad. Munch even helped me get to Whirlpool, to meet the seal specialists that supposedly were swarming the island.

Not that I've gotten anywhere.

I haven't encountered a single forest dweller. With poor eyesight, it's nearly impossible to track down people as elusive as shadows. Munch has been stalwart in his refusal to help me find 'our pesky neighbors'. I assume there's bad blood. One time in my toddler years, Mama moved apartments because our neighbor kept trying to set her up with her cousin, despite Mama insisting she was married. Somehow, I doubt Munch's problems are similar.

Neither have I fared better with the Uzumaki. I assumed I would get to meet Uzumaki Ryuchiro early on. There, I would gauge his willingness to fund a new village. (Mito even said she'd help me, if I gave a convincing performance as her.) Instead, all I've met with are servants, private tutors, and—in a twist of karma— _go_ instructors.

"Have you seen Elder Horio today?" I ask my _go_ instructor, as I haphazardly place a stone.

"Concentrate," he sniffs. "The structure of your stones in the center has been endangered."

My physical body has been endangered, actually.

"I see," I say instead, and plonk down another stone. "But have you?"

"Lady Mito, this lowly instructor has not taken his turn yet."

"Oh." I pick up the stone. "My bad."

"That's the wrong one."

I squint down at the board, sigh, then twist out of my traditional kneeling position.

"I think I've lost."

"You... think?" Hand fanned demurely across his lips, my instructor expresses his horror in a genteel fashion. "I see everyone around this manor has been lacking concentration recently. Well, since this lowly one can do little, Lady Mito, he takes his leave."

I try not to look too excited as my instructor shuffles aggressively out of the pavilion. Freeing up a whole thirty minutes in my morning is an excellent start.

Briefly, I fantasize about escaping the manor—pulling a 'Mito', so to speak. But then I think better of it. I have sealing lessons right after lunch. Those are invaluable. Maybe I should demand to take lunch sooner, and shift everything up in the day. As if on cue, my stomach gurgles beseechingly.

"Hungry for a snack?"

 _That voice._

I turn to frown at the sky-blue robes leaning against the latticework of the pavilion doorway, blocking the sole exit. Sun streams through in geometric patterns, bright as the visitor's teeth.

"You're not supposed to be here," I snap.

"Nonsense. They just hired me in the kitchen," says Hashirama, in Murata-guise. "Lucky for me that half their staff quit."

He approaches with an enthusiastic flourish, then deposits a round platter of something red onto the bench at the side of the rotunda area.

"You cook?" I can't help asking.

"I wash dishes," he says, positively glowing with pride. "Got promoted to serving duty today."

"Good for you." I wave him off in my most haughty, rich girl manner. "Now go away. I'm still not going anywhere with you."

"That's too bad. I even got you a present."

 _By definition, that should be a bribe._ I squint very hard at the platter of food across the room.

"Sorry, I don't like tomatoes."

"You know what they are!" Hashirama beams. "The head chef says the seeds came from foreign merchants. I've tried them once when I visited with Lord Jounzo. They're delic—"

"Not my style." _Though they were Papa's favorite._ I bite my lip. "If you've got nothing better to offer—"

"I'll leave soon." Hashirama's voice drops low. "But you should come with me."

My nails dig into my palms.

"Not this again—"

"My present isn't tomatoes," he says quickly. "I have an audience. With Uzumaki Ryuchiro."

 _The clan head. My pretend father._

After a beat, I find my voice again.

"When? _How?"_

Hashirama nods, comprehending my disbelief. "Tomorrow. It wasn't easy, even if I'm to be his…" He quickly matches the shade of the tomatoes. "Um, you know. Anyways, I thought you'd want to meet him sooner or later. The clan head has a lot of influence. Resources."

Both of us must be thinking the same thing.

 _Resources for a new village._

I bite my cheek to contain my elation. Then, I pause.

"And how am I invited?" I whisper, brow knit.

"Sneak out," Hashirama replies conspiratorially. "I'll make you a _bunshin._ How do you think I've been moving around?"

Making a clone is not the problem.

"No, I can do that for myself," I say. "But not just anyone can meet the clan head. I'll need an alias."

"Senju Gouda," says Hashirama. "It's obvious you have talent at _henge_. I've set up my real cousin Gouda on a date down in the village. He'll be gone for an entire day."

Blood pumps in my veins. Finally, to meet Uzumaki Ryuchiro! But we both need to figure out the mechanics first. My hands slap together as I try to imagine what this Senju relative looks like. A brief moment of hurt flashes through my chest as I see Itama in my minds eye.

"So? What does your cousin look like?"

Hashirama's finger strokes his chin. "Think mopey chipmunk."

* * *

The appointment with Uzumaki Ryuchiro, clan head, famed seal user, scary father, is at the same manor where I met Hashirama for the greeting ceremony. The venue's squeaking floors have dulled, perhaps due to some special seal the Uzumaki have tailored to the occasion. As Hashirama and I approach the inner hall where Uzumaki Ryuchiro will grant us an audience, I hear voices booming from the other side of the painted wall panels.

"Uzumaki need to expand our network abroad! We can't keep relying on mainland daimyo to distribute our scrolls!"

"That work is for chattel! We have no cheap labor to spare for such work."

"Every year, prices go up! And Ryugu is not as kind with the fishing ports as his predecessor! He dares to overcharge us because he thinks we won't retaliate!"

" _Retaliate?_ You're not suggesting—"

"Don't brand me as one of those extremists! I'm _not!_ But even you have to admit, they make some reasonable points."

A pause ensues after this. The tension from inside the room seems to leak out like hissing gas.

"Nothing about them is reasonable. They desecrate the gods to gain power! A true Uzumaki would never—"

And here, we arrive at the room's entrance. Our escort guard slides open a wall panel, and I'm greeted with the sight of an unexpectedly small, narrow room. A characteristic raised platform is at one end, to our left. The platform, surprisingly, is empty. To our left are a handful of attendants, two of which are particularly red in the face, as if they've been arguing. One of the men stands, and it's immediately apparent who he is. Everyone else seems to hold their breaths.

"Our guests have had to witness something unpleasant," murmurs the standing man, back turned to us. Hints of his profile reveal marks of uneven shaving. Bits of red, scraggly beard peek through his ornate kimono collar. "Come in."

We slip into the space as silently as we can, even as the other courtiers shuffle out.

A few of the men shoot furtive glances at Hashirama, who pretends not to notice. I'm torn between envy and dislike of his pokerface, as we take our positions on the vacated spaces in front of the raised platform. Once we're seated in the room with only Uzumaki Ryuchiro, our escort slides the wall panel shut with a click.

Finally, I take in the full figure of the redhaired man in the room—tall, swarthy, with striking pale eyes the color of the sea at dawn set beneath strong, bright scarlet brows. His natural features are as wild and untamed as his dark navy hakama are refined and muted.

Ryuchiro speaks with a clear, polished baritone:

"As you see, my new staff are not the most competent in crafting noise-cancelling seals. Best not report it to your father, Hashirama." The man shuffles heavily to the platform, and sits wearily down on the ledge. "Lest he worry needlessly."

No matter the tone of his voice or his word choice, the piercing stare at both of us speak volumes. We're not to tell anyone what we've just heard.

As Gouda, there's not much I can say in this moment. But Hashirama shocks me with his next words.

"There's a lot I don't tell my father, Sir."

A bushy red brow raises. Ryuchiro looks like a wizened old predator whose grown tired of his position atop the food chain. I sit rigid (my _go_ instructor would be proud), not daring to breathe.

"I'm here to ask you a favor," Hashirama continues. "I humbly ask you to fund my new village."

One moment, Ryuchiro had been a tired old man. Now, chakra seems to flood the entire narrow space, until I'm nearly convinced that I'm actually drowning underwater, that all the air is gone, that I can float the rafters if the chakra pressure gets any more intense. Then something seems to snap, like a giant hose cut loose, and another intense pressure stifles the room. A strange wind begins to swirl around the empty space, whipping up our hair, sucking oxygen into a vortex made of competing, wrestling chakras. Like dragons twining around one another, Uzumaki and Senju chakra coil tightly.

Ryuchiro closes his eyes. "A favor for my son-in-law," he rumbles lowly. "Shall I consider it?"

Like a mountain bending down, Hashirama folds, his hands to the tatami, his raven hair splayed on the woven floor.

Pale eyes flick to me.

For some reason, I can't bring myself to bow. Awe? Fear? Nostalgia? The feel of Uzumaki chakra lingers (it feels familiar, almost), and I take a deep breath.

"I'll bow, but only if you favor me too," I say numbly.

The pulse point at Hashirama's jaw jumps. From the corner of my eye, I see him twist to stare at me.

A lazy smile stretches across Ryuchiro's face. "And who are you, to ask so boldly? Just a servant, surely?"

"A cousin," Hashirama amends.

"Not quite." I soldier on. "I'll tell you who I am, but promise me you'll do more than just _consider_ the favor."

Now, the clan head looks bored. "Your identity is not an even trade."

 _But something else is, surely._ "Name your price," I say.

The clan head pauses, the light in his eyes unreadable. Shadows seem to morph his face into that of a demon. "I want to know the future," Ryuchiro says simply.

My heart seems to stop beating.

"This is the most important thing, for a leader," the clan head rumbles. He stands, and begins pacing the platform at the speed of a wounded bear, his voice deep. "I want to know my clan will be well and prosper. I want to know my grandchildren will be happy. I want to know my legacy is ensured. But no one will ever know that. Because no one is immortal."

"No need to be immortal," I murmur under my breath. Beside me, Hashirama turns to stare.

A knock sounds at the door.

Ryuchiro stops pacing. "Come in," he calls.

The wall slides open.

A round, egg-shaped figure is silhouetted at the far end of the room.

As if in a dream, I fling the trailing end of my sleeve between the new arrival and Ryuchiro. But no projectiles come. As if sensing my mood, Hashirama stands.

"Horio?" Ryuchiro rumbles. "What is this?"

"Sir, forgive the interruption." Elder Horio makes a chuffing sound, as if sniffling. "For the greater good of Whirlpool, I had to interrupt."

 _Why is Elder Horio back? Who is he, and what is he up to with Nezu?_ But Horio doesn't know it's me. Besides, I'm disguised as Hashirama's cousin, Senju Gouda. I'm in no immediate danger from him. Still, I don't know where to begin, without any evidence of what had happened in the mountain forest with that pit.

"Your daughter has been taken hostage," Horio says mournfully.

Not a muscle moves, but all the blood drains from Ryuchiro's face.

"Mito is taking lessons at the manor."

"Merely a _bunshin_ clone, I'm afraid."

My heart drops. _Is everything Horio says true, then?_

The clan head's eyes ghost over the walls, glazed and impenetrable.

"Who? Where?"

Folding his voluminous sleeves together, Horio dips low. "That heretic from the West has her. She is at the southern waterfalls." His voice is guttural, a convincing lament for a well-bred man. "I would find her myself, if I could."

Catch-22s never present themselves at an opportune time. Do I announce what I'd heard Horio say, in the forest? That would reveal to him what I know. I can't be sure that Horio is even telling the truth. Without thinking, I reach out and grab Hashirama's arm. His whole body jerks, but he turns and catches the urgent look I give him.

Hashirama's mask slips on neatly.

For once, I'm glad for it.

"We'll find her," he announces.

Like a spark in a room full of fumes, tension rebuilds. Its focal point lies behind us. The wall panel portraits of dragons swimming through what look to be storming seas seem to leap off the wall screens. Ryuchiro positions a hand near his brow. "You'll require assistance."

"I volunteer, Milord," says Horio.

The wary feeling in the pit of my stomach grows. I resist the urge to simply blurt out my intentions to go as well. Theoretically, I should drop the pretense, and reveal my identity. But from Horio's words in the forest, he knew I couldn't see. That's one thing too many he knows—not about Uzumaki Mito, his charge, but me, Uchiha Sarada. Again, my eyes attempt to shoot lasers at Hashirama. He doesn't seem to notice; his expression is uncharacteristically stern as he fixates on the wooden beams of the ceiling.

"Three people should suffice," says Hashirama. "Attendant Horio, Gouda, and myself."

"Big words," intones the clan head. "Southern Whirlpool is home to the likes your clan have never faced. The forest people have lived in those forests for centuries. They are far more fearsome than any in Fire, including your Uchiha rivals…" As he speaks, Ryuchiro's chakra grows more stifling. I watch Horio tug frantically at his collar. Beads of sweat start to form on my forehead. "They are cunning and barbaric. Even we Uzumaki have been unable to drive them from this island. But you would fight them on their own turf?"

Grating, creaking sounds ricochet along the room's four corners, the dull groans reverberating across walls like a strange, primal percussion line. As I look up, I realize the wooden architectural beams overhead are moving, trailing down closer and closer, wrapping over meticulously carved corners with their warped, sinuous shapes. Budding leaves sprout from the wooden borders of the wall panels, and Horio's face blanches as he's bordered by foliage. In less than a minute, the branches have cast twisted shadows covering the elaborate paintings on the wall panels around us; a tree twines across a painted dragon.

"You forget," Hashirama murmurs. "The forest is my home, too."

* * *

A trek through the woods in a three-man team would be almost soothing. That is, if my teammates weren't the god of shinobi (currently whistling off-key) and a man that may or may not be out to kidnap me (now a colorful pink egg, rather than the cream robes he's always worn at the Uzumaki compound). For his girth, Horio sets an impressive pace through the forest paths. Of course, I have my suspicions as to why he's so quick to navigate when we're already miles away from Uzumaki village.

Naturally, Hashirama and I are on alert.

Lagging behind, I've let Hashirama know about the incident in the forest. Thus, we both jump when Horio stops his power walk, and calls to us. I'm especially alarmed when he addresses me.

"So, Gouda, how are you enjoying your stay in Whirlpool?"

I fumble for words as I approach.

"It's... nice."

"Just nice?" Horio slaps his profuse midsection. "You're not used to it, I see. We're more advanced than your lot, I presume. I've never been to the Mainland, but I see the cheap trinkets your traders try to pawn off on us."

"The Senju would be happy to host you on your first visit to the Mainland, Attendant Horio," says Hashirama, ever the conversationalist. "What sorts of things could we prepare for you, that you would enjoy?"

Horio harrumphs. "Nothing truly enjoyable, I fear. I'd have better luck with the forest peoples!"

"Tell me about them," I urge, as I duck a low branch and narrowly escape a mouth full of brambles. "I heard they also specialize in seals."

"Dangerous, powerful seals," says Horio. He's now slowed to walk alongside us. I watch his protruding front teeth gnaw on his lip, and it occurs to me that I've never seen him, up close. He's called Elder Horio by the other servants, but it's hard to say whether Horio is old or young. I swiftly turn away before he notices Senju Gouda staring.

"The tribes have been dormant for a long time," continues Horio. "But recently, they grow active."

"Active, how?" asks Hashirama.

"Organized. A leader has united the disparate factions."

Fishing for information is an art. With great nonchalance, I say: "If the forest tribes were scary to begin with, this leader must be terrifying."

"I'd like to meet him," Hashirama hums.

"He is a visionary," says Horio, pensive. "No one's ever seen him, but they call him Zetsu."

.

.

.

 _tbc_

.

.

.

* * *

 _Suzu:_ The plot thickens.


	13. pigment 2

_Suzu:_ _I've been waylaid by the fact that this story refuses to end in an arc's worth of chapters._ Refuses. _But fret not, this is built like an accordion, and should withstand an extra chapter or so._ _Also,_ _we are squarely in AU land regarding Sarada not knowing squat about Zetsu. If you squint, this could still be canon-compliant._

* * *

.

.

.

Above, a champagne sky.

Beyond, a bristling sea.

And, as far as the eye can see, a tide of trees.

Wind sways the forest to and fro. I lean against the Sycamore branch and sway with the rest of the trees, blinking at the colors as the sun dips behind wisps of cloud.

The wind stills. For a moment, everything is quiet.

A curling sprig of wood snakes up my back, loops around my shoulder, and tickles the shell of my ear. My gaze moves back to the horizon. My Sharingan grants me almost normal vision as I scan the far crags of the island.

"The cliff is up ahead!" I shout. "To the southwest!"

My perch on the treetop rustles. Leafy tendrils dip and twist, bobbing gently like a mossy seat on a carousel ride. My arms grasp the thickest part of the branch as it lowers itself—down, down, past the leafy green waves, until the golden sunlight hues dull into shaded twilight under the thick foliage, and I can almost make out the two blobs down below: one cream-colored egg, and one sky-blue pillar.

As the shrine attendant Horio winces at the brambles in my hair, I almost forget that I'm not disguised as "Lady Mito," but as Senju Gouda.

"The cliff is close," I say. "Less than an hour more in that direction, toward the sea."

Hashirama turns to Horio. "And you're sure that's where the forest tribe's base is?"

"Historically," the attendant sniffs. "We Uzumaki have not ventured there in years. Not since Lady Mito's birth."

"Well, it looked uninhabited," I say.

"Your cousin has keen eyes," Horio simpers. "It's a wonder he's so clumsy when walking through these woods."

"He prefers the even roads of our town," Hashirama inserts easily. "I'm afraid our clan coddles him."

I scoff. "So I'm told."

As we continue on our way, Horio flashes a pointed smile in Hashirama's direction. "Even the clan that bred the _god of shinobi_ must have some lesser members, I see."

Hashirama flushes. "There are no lesser members in the Senju clan."

"But surely, not everyone can be a _god?"_ Horio needles. "That's what they're calling you on the Mainland now, isn't it? My, you Mainlanders really are a heretical bunch. To think, promoting a little boy to a deity."

Arms swinging stiffly, the newly-minted god looks ready to bolt, as he hastens in the direction of the cliff. Horio and I follow at a brisk pace, me adapting to taking tall, wide steps in order to clear any upturned roots and brambles. I'm glad Horio doesn't run like a shinobi. Otherwise, I'd be ashamed of slowing the group down.

As for _who_ Elder Horio is, besides an Uzumaki attendant… that mystery remains.

After several minutes of trekking, I notice something's off. Maybe it's paranoia. My eyesight is compromised, and straining my other senses can betray. Especially because I'm wary of so many things. One, Horio. Two, any forest dwellers and their traps. I walk a few feet more, before I stop in my tracks.

"Wait," I call.

"Oh dear. You've coddled your cousin, indeed."

Hashirama backtracks toward us, shaking his head. "Gouda's right to stop. Something's following us."

Horio's hands flutter in agitation. "Forest dwellers?"

"From the sound, something bigger," I say. "Bigger than humans."

The woods around us seem to darken at my words. Belatedly, I realize the sun's almost fully set, as the sky has chilled to a dusty blue.

Horio clutches his belly nervously, his chin wobbling. "Stop joking, you two. There aren't any foul creatures in these woods. We Uzumaki have long eradicated the wild beasts."

"I don't doubt it," Hashirama says diplomatically. "We're close to the cliffs now. Should we ignore it and keep going?"

"We can't know what we'll find at our destination," I say. "Better deal with—"

The rest is lost.

Because the forest starts shrieking.

* * *

Sprouting from the trees in pulsing, scaly coils are five creatures with mouths open and fangs dripping, their serpentine bodies a cross between snake and dragon. The sheer size of these beasts is paralyzing. Thick as tree trunks. Forked tongues sweeping up the detritus on the forest floor like full-sized pitchforks. All the while, a terrible keening sound comes from their mouths, so high pitched and raw it feels like a child screaming, rather than the slithering sound of ordinary snakes.

Of course, ordinary snakes don't have heads that are the size of doorways.

More shadows start twisting in the dark.

 _Mokuton?_

The trees around us flex, their branches knotting around the giant serpents. Hashirama's hands are outstretched. Huddled at Hashirama's feet, Horio is open-mouthed and trembling, flattened out on the forest floor.

"What manner of creature…?" he croaks.

Serpent and wood twine furiously around each other in an endless, maddening dance to the screeching music. Two serpents look to be caught, but the rest slither from the grasp of the branches, too fast to be caught by growing wood.

One rears its head, jaws snapping dangerously close. A dizzying smell slams my sinuses. Eyes watering, I clamp my hands to my nose so hard my knuckles go white.

Briefly, I consider punching the ground, but the trees all around might fall on top of us. We also risk harm if I shoot fire. _Well then_ —I gather chakra to my hand and let it pulse. Then I lace it with elemental chakra.

Static dances up and down my arm.

Surging into millions of high frequency sparks.

 _Chi-chi-chi-chi-chi-chi_ _—_

The sparks grow denser, higher in voltage, forming the diffuse shape of a blade. My hand begins to tremble with the explosive mass of lightning, but I only draw more chakra from my core, willing the blade to grow. Longer. Long enough to slice the full diameter of the snake.

As Kakashi-sama once warned Papa, this lightning attack requires huge amounts of chakra. Papa's chakra reserves reached supernatural levels over the years, but for me, shaping and holding a lightning blade—and one of this size—will have a toll later.

But what choice do I have? I can barely see in daylight. It's grown dark, but the moon isn't out yet. Pinpointing the snakes' vitals will yield misses. And misses mean death.

Like an enormous spring coil, a hissing shadow launches straight at me.

Leaping up, I swing down at the dark shape, cleaving and missing.

I curse. Swing again, blindly.

Swept up in a circular vortex, the leaves around me sizzle where they brush the tip of my sword. I jump as the shadow springs back. This time, my aim is true. I lop the hissing head from the body, gagging at the smell of cooked flesh.

Just as I land, the ground beneath me explodes.

For an instant, I think I've stepped on a mine, or a trap laid by the forest people. But the wet, rancid smell reveals that I'm inches from a cavernous mouth, inches from being swallowed whole.

 _Chi-chi-chi-chi-chi—_

Lightning surges anew. As I fall, mucus and blood spray the night air, dousing me. One hand clutches my sleeve against my nose and mouth as the other carves through gaping jaws, fileting tissue and scales, until finally, I feel the snake's dark shadow shudder and go still.

My sleeve has become heavy and wet, and my exposed skin stings in the cool night air. Panting, I fall on my knees onto a dry-looking patch of forest debris. My outer layer of clothes is completely drenched, so I peel it off.

The forest is quiet.

I stand and examine the carnage: serpentine corpses, their shadowed forms twisted into figure-eights around gnarled trees, others sliced into pieces. The scene is terrifying by any standard, especially as the clouds slowly part to reveal the moon. My gaze travels, searching. But making sense of the serpent blood-splattered forest is pointless. I've walked into a red-painted nightmare.

I cup a hand to my mouth. "Everyone okay?"

Crunching sounds break the silence. I tense.

"It's me," comes a muffled voice.

A humanoid figure separates from a larger shadowy mass on the ground. As he approaches, his long hair trails and drips with what appears to be serpent saliva. Not good. Mitsuki had once told me about the properties of giant snakes around Konoha.

"Dry off," I advise. "Or it'll start burning soon."

"This is a good time to go back to a bowl cut," Hashirama mutters, and attempts to wring out his hair, only to pull back and examine his hands. "Ow. Now my hands hurt."

"Their saliva is highly acidic. Better to digest you with."

"Glad I'm appetizing," Hashirama says.

Scowling at the abysmal joke, I mop up serpent gook from my own arms and legs. Then I roll my destroyed outer garment into a ball and discard it on the forest floor.

"Where is Horio?" I ask. "Did he… you know?"

Even if he has some hidden motive to kidnap Mito or me, I wouldn't wish being eaten alive upon anyone.

Hashirama peels back his own outer garment. "I saw him run into the woods. Right when several more serpents came up from underground. I sent trees after it, but I don't think they caught every one."

Mild horror grips me. "There were _more?"_

Hashirama regards me curiously. "We can look for Horio, but it might make more sense to wait here, in case he comes back. Or we meet him at the destination."

"Let's wait," I say. "We should also dry off."

As an Elder Uzumaki attendant, I suspect that Horio has some survival tricks up his voluminous sleeves. Beyond that, there's the matter of our own survival. Experience living with Munch in these forests has shown me that, unless we get off the rest of the blood coating us, we'll get eaten alive by another beast. Mosquitoes.

* * *

The small campfire crackles merrily, as Hashirama and I smoke the trailing ends of our robes. The scene could look almost idyllic, if not for the pungent smell and hulking shadows of dead snake. Still, I'm reminded of the river where Hashirama and I first met. From the way he keeps shooting glances in my direction, I think I'm not the only one reminiscing.

"Do they hurt?" he asks suddenly.

I blink.

He motions to his arms and legs. _Ah._ My expanding collection of scrapes and bruises, from tripping around. A month's worth of living with visual impairment is on display now that I've rolled up the hems of my pants and sleeves. I don't bother to heal them now. But maybe I should. Hashirama's guilt is clear, from the crazy suggestions he's offered at earlier legs of our trip.

"Better than being carried," I say. "What grown man carries his adult cousin? You almost gave us away in front of Horio."

Hashirama starts. "About Horio…"

I expect him to suggest we go look for him, rather than wait. Or to ask for more details about what I heard in the forest that day, from hearing Nezu to the seal trap.

"What he said earlier…"

I twirl a sprig of fern between my fingers. "Which part?"

"People have started calling me… names." Hashirama's voice drops. "But they're not serious."

Oh. _That._

 _The god of shinobi._

Resolutely, I stare into the fire. _People see what they want._

From my peripheral vision, I see him feed some twigs into the fire. "Father always said, if I'm not careful, they'll brand me as a demon. Some people already do."

 _It's timeless, these things._ Mixed emotions play tug of war inside me. But this isn't about the lingering feelings of mistrust from the war camp. Maybe this is about chasing a dream, but being scared to lose yourself. I bite my lip. As those who chase the title of hokage, we can all learn a thing or two from Naruto-sama.

"Then prove everyone wrong."

A pause. Then: "It doesn't really matter, what _everyone_ thinks. Only some people."

Something clutches at my chest—

"I told you at Aida Castle, that I don't doubt you."

—an odd pressure.

"But what about you, Miss Mirror? Do _you_ trust me?

"I think… that you should care more about what Uzumaki Ryuchiro thinks."

Silence.

Automatically, my gaze flits up. Hashirama's over-polite grin has slipped into another expression altogether, one I can't discern from across the campfire. Wordlessly, he leans back on the heels of his palms, stretching against the pile of dried leaves as he looks up past the treetops to the inky sky.

"You're right," he agrees. "Gotta get on the good side of my in-laws."

"For the sake of your future village."

"The Uzumaki are kind of stuffy, but good for raising funds," Hashirama muses. "And they could be alright, with a few rounds of sake in them."

I roll my eyes. "What clans do you want, then?"

"All of them," he says, not missing a beat.

My snort is muffled into my sleeve. "Top five."

"Well, Sarutobi?"

"Given," I say. "Ikkyun will follow you to the grave and back. With his garden shears."

"Ha." Hashirama's eyes seem to crinkle. "I'd like the village to be near the forests, so the Nara clan would be good too. I'll need to make arrangements for them to protect the village with their shadow jutsu."

"Troublesome," I hum. "Who else?"

He ticks off his fingers. "If Sarutobi and Nara are there, then naturally, Yamanaka and Akimichi."

"One more."

"The fifth…" Hashirama's voice dies.

A whistling breeze flows through the trees.

I close my eyes. Our dying campfire flickers in the back of my eyelids, where it seems to grow into an inferno, licking at the forest around us.

"The Uchiha?" I breath.

"Yeah. Yes."

"Interesting choice."

A nervous laugh is the future Shodaime's only reply. Something rattles in my ribs.

"But a good choice," I whisper.

"The right choice?" Hashirama wonders.

My hands clutch tighter at my forearms, and I tuck my knees in. The fire crackles close, warming me. I think of Naki's question.

"I'm not sure," I admit. "But it's what I want, too."

* * *

A sudden crunching sound comes from nearby. Hashirama and I jump to our feet.

"Thought I smelled somethin' good!"

The familiar voice comes from an even more familiar drooling mouth. What's more, only one person can work up such an appetite in the middle of a pile of hulking snake carcasses.

"Yer havin' a barbeque without me!"

I smile in greeting. "Munch? Is that you?"

"Brought a sidekick too." The sandy-haired man flourishes his bandaged arms behind him.

A second figure steps into the glow of our campfire.

" _Tobi!"_

Hashirama and Tobirama greet each other heartily. Conflicted, I back away. It's difficult to meet Tobirama's eyes. The last time I saw him, he had Itama in his arms. Events that sometimes feel a world away hit me hard again. So I try to paste a polite smile on my face. It comes out weird, because Munch gets that knowing look in his eye and pronounces:

"Perfect night for a barbeque party, eh? These snakes look pretty fresh."

Tobirama and I both balk. But Hashirama's eyes light up.

"Oh _good!_ I've been wondering if these are edible. I'm starving."

"Good man!" Munch claps Hashirama on the back. " _Everythin'_ is edible if you've got the stomach. I can see the promise in ya!"

"You're called Munch?" Hashirama asks eagerly. "I'm Hashirama. Thank you for taking care of my little brother."

Munch's face seems to droop a bit, but he quickly recovers.

"Hash it is!" grins Munch. "So you're Tobes' big bro?" Munch nudges an elbow at Tobirama, whose shoulders are statuesque rigid. I don't need to see his face clearly to tell he's uncomfortable.

"So the big bro came looking for this troublemaker, didn't ya?" Munch sing-songs.

"We're actually here for another reason," I say. "Munch, where's Mito?"

Munch stops heckling Tobirama, looking surprised.

"Oh, y'mean Red Lady One? She came by 'n left two days ago. Guess she's back home with those snooty relatives she keeps complainin' about."

"Relatives are where we came from," I say. "An elder servant of their household reported that she was taken hostage by some heretic," I say, quoting Elder Horio's words.

"Oooh, a _heretic?"_ Munch gasps dramatically. "Y'gotta be more specific. Our neighbors are heretics. Forest's teemin' with 'em."

"We also thought the forest tribes were the culprits," says Hashirama. "But there's something else you should know."

* * *

We explain the situation to Munch and Tobirama over grilled snake (which, absurdly, tastes quite nice). I make sure to recount everything I can remember about the ambush of my palanquin, the encounter with Nezu and Horio in the woods, and the seal trap. As Tobirama's face grows more and more grim, Munch's grows increasingly excited.

"So even more people are after the Red Lady!" Munch crows. "But is it One or Two? And why? How _thrilling!"_

"The Red Lady?" echoes Hashirama.

Tobirama points at me. "Sa—"

"Me and Mito," I interject quickly. "Munch just likes to nickname people." This era's custom has become second nature now. I like Munch well enough, but it's a different matter to trust him with my identity.

At Hashirama's puzzled face, Tobirama adds: "Mito is the first Red Lady. She's the one Munch here met first. But what Munch didn't know until recently is that this Mito is Uzumaki Mito." Tobirama draws a spiral with his makeshift skewer branch into the ground. "Your _fiancée_ , Brother."

Hashirama chokes loudly on his food.

Munch cackles. "Drama!" Arms crossed, he nods with a sated look. "To think, all this time, I never guessed that Red Lady One was _the_ Uzumaki clan heiress. Call me blind! She was too snooty to be an ordinary girl. Too secretive about her identity, too."

Then, Munch points his skewer forward.

Straight at me.

"Kinda like you, Red Lady Two."

I chew a bite of food. "M'not sec'tive," I grumble, glaring daggers at my makeshift house mate.

Hashirama's laughter booms over our circle. "You are, though. And a bit snooty," he exclaims, wiping at his eyes. "You get these _moods,_ which I honestly think are hereditary."

My cheeks feel hot. It's not Hashirama's words, but the horrified way in which Tobirama stares between me and his brother. Before I can open my mouth to retort that this is the famous _Haruno_ temper, Munch starts laughing too. "Yer okay, Red Lady." The sandy-haired man stands and wipes his greasy fingers on his pants. "No one's perfect. Perfect's borin'."

I take another ferocious bite.

Tobirama also stands. "Brother, I last saw Mito leaving through the woods two days ago. But Munch here left out the fact that earlier that same day, another guest left the house. _Izuna."_

My skewer drops.

I have to stop myself from blurting my clan name.

"That Izuna?" I say. "He's here on the island?"

"Oh, you guys all know Izumi?" Munch asks. _"Real_ small world, with everyone gatherin' here. Next thing you know, I'll run into _my_ brother or somethin'."

Tobirama turns to his brother. "My point is, I bet Izuna had something to do with Mito not having made it home."

" _Tobi._ Not another word."

Surprise colors everyone's faces.

A bit shaken, I turn back to Munch. "Wait, why are you and Tobirama here?"

Tobirama remains tight-lipped.

"Snake hunting," Munch explains. "Y'know I like my food fresh everyday."

Quite fresh.

The nauseous images of pungent dung beetles, crawling spiny critters, and slick salamanders make my palms sweat. "I don't remember you bringing back snake?"

"Yer right. These didn't turn up 'til yesterday. One o' these burrowed clean through my hunting traps, so Tobes and I followed it to get our food back."

"How'd you follow it?" Hashirama asks. "Maybe we can find Horio."

"Easy peasey," says Munch.

He points a finger downward.

"They leave tunnels."

* * *

I regard uneasily the gaping hole in the ground where I was almost snake food.

"They take their food down underground to eat. I saw it. My poor rabbits and quails," Munch sniffs. "Though this Horio guy may be snake food already. Fer how suspicious he is, serves him right."

"If we do follow the tunnels, be careful, Brother," says Tobirama. "Some go far underground."

"Less talkin', more action!" cries Munch, who, with a full belly is an entirely transformed man.

"What about Mito?" I say. "If she's really kidnapped, we don't have time."

"Think logically," says Tobirama, addressing me for the first time. "You don't have any proof she's at this so-called base." As if realizing who he's lecturing, he looks away awkwardly. "I think it's better to have more people in our party, in case the natives are hostile."

"I say we don't go in there at all." Munch shudders. "Y'can at least eat snakes, but we're just wastin' energy going into where y'think the forest guys are. Betcha the whole kidnapping thing is just a lie that Horio guy told ya."

"It could be a lie," says Hashirama. "But we gave our word to the Uzumaki clan head that we'd try to find her."

Tobirama steps forward. "I'll go scan the cliff first, Brother. I'm the best scout in our clan."

Hashirama frowns. _"I_ made the promise."

"You also made a promise to Father, remember? To secure the alliance. There will be no alliance if our clan heir dies walking into an unknown enemy den."

Around our circle, the air shifts. Dense chakra vacuums the pocket of space around the campfire. Sitting beside me, Munch goes rigid, back taut. _He hasn't felt Hashirama's chakra signature before._ The strange man reminds me of a big kid in some ways. I reach out to pat the back of Munch's hand.

Finally, voice exhausted, Hashirama says:

"We'll follow you after we investigate the tunnel. Munch, will you please accompany my brother?"

"I should go find Mito too," I say, while stamping down my feelings toward working with Tobirama.

"Not as you are," Hashirama reasons. He motions at his eyes. Tobirama's jaw twitches. "Besides, Munch is a local."

"Nuh-uh. Noooo way. I haven't lived here long either, Hash!" Munch shakes his head vigorously, then pauses, and cocks his chin toward the Senju. "Though… if yer heir of yer clan… what'll y'give me in return?"

A trick question.

The time Munch asked me this, I was surrounded by expensive shells on the edge of the seaside. I thought I could bribe Munch with those. Turns out he only wanted the seafood.

Hashirama only smiles wanly.

"The best barbeque the Mainland has to offer. Deal?"

* * *

Although the tunnel's diameter easily fits a human, the slope of its walls requires moving briskly single-file. A few inches in front of my nose, Hashirama's clothes smell even more strongly of snake than the tunnel we're in.

"How'd you read Munch like that?" I say offhand.

"I know a thing or two about bargaining," comes the reply.

 _From placing wagers on dice and cards, surely._

Still, I grin in spite of myself. "So you're pretty smart after all."

Next thing I know, my face is smooshed up against some stinky robes. Coughing, I unpeel myself. After an awkward pause, Hashirama's back keeps moving, faster than before.

In my haste, a large pebble catches my foot.

I hit the tunnel floor nose first.

 _Never mind. This wins over Hashirama's clothes._

As I right myself, a glimmer catches my eye.

"Move the light here! I found something strange."

Our makeshift torch made of a tree branch wrapped with a cloth soaked with snake oil is brought closer. Illuminated up close, the glossy-looking smudge on the dark ground is even more apparent.

"That shiny stuff?" murmurs Hashirama.

"Paint, maybe. It's metallic."

My finger hovers over the curling streak. It looks like the remnant of a bad paint job over an old road. I'm reminded of festival decorations growing up where we painted Konoha's streets orange and gold. Besides glaring bad taste, the persistence of the metallic residue stressed out the service workers who washed the streets.

"Let's keep going. Maybe there's more of it."

It's not five minutes before we stop again.

"What's wrong?" I gasp, in between spitting out the taste of Hashirama's clothes.

"Sorry," Hashirama says. "I could have sworn this wasn't a dead end…"

"The tunnel must have collapsed," I grumble. "Guess we go back."

No reply. I peer past his shoulder at the wall of dirt.

Then I see it, too.

Familiar, glimmering curlicues.

"It's the _same,"_ I marvel.

"More of the stuff from before," agrees Hashirama.

Nudging close to the wall, my finger traces the pattern along the rough soil. The shiny trails cover the entire wall, revealing the full pattern.

"Not just that," I say. "I've been taught to draw these by the Uzumaki instructors at the manor. These are the same patterns as the seals inside Mito's sedan."

Wordlessly, I look to Hashirama. He looks quizzically back.

"Sorry about this," I say. "But I don't know what happens next."

Hashirama offers a small smile. "This island's secrets run deep."

"Nothing wrong with a few secrets." I grin wryly.

"Well said, Miss Mirror."

My smile falls away as I bite my thumb to draw blood, then form the hand seals. Just as Mito's instructor taught me.

 _Ram._

 _Monkey._

 _Bird._

 _Dog._

 _Boar._

"Those are summons seals," Hashirama comments, as he copies. "But backwards."

"Not quite," I say. "One more."

I twist my fingers together, pinky to thumb. Then twist my palms upside down to create horns.

"Rabbit seal," Hashirama comments. "Inverted."

"The sign of six paths," I amend. "The Uzumaki believe it draws on a divine power, to warp dimensions."

 _"Amazing,"_ says Hashirama.

"Says the god of shinobi," I quip.

And with that, we both put our hands to the wall.

* * *

We emerge tumbling to a hard floor, covered in a familiar slime.

Lightheaded, I peel back my hair from my face. Beside me, Hashirama is coughing out mucus. The familiar burning against my skin makes me think we were just spat out from the mouth of a very familiar creature. But the snake is nowhere to be seen.

We're greeted by the sight of a dimly lit cavern, no bigger than my old living room. There's only one exit, a narrow pathway opposite us. Torches are placed around the circular space, flickering unevenly against subterranean air currents. There's also several large earthen basins with what appears to be water, as well as a mass of folded linens.

"Karma," Hashirama says mournfully. "I eat it, it eats me. Though this is not what I imagined the inside of the snake to be."

I feel the air shift around us. "Wherever this is, we should lay low."

"Is this still Whirlpool Island? The forest tribes' base?" Hashirama whispers. "We'll transform to blend in."

"I don't know what forest people look like," I admit.

"A tree, then," declares Hashirama. "I'm quite good at it."

 _Oh, that talking tree from when we met?_ Eyebrow up, I wave an arm at the distinctly tree-less cavern. "Really?"

We settle for swapping our snake-ruined clothes with the folded linens. They turn out to be thick white tunics that just skirt above my ankles, and to Hashirama's knees. I scoop water from the basin onto my burning face and hands, as I resolutely ignore Hashirama changing in the corner. Then, after both of us are relatively acid-free, we pad out of the cavern, following the direction of the breeze as good spelunkers do.

Hashirama walks in front, an arrangement that still stings. While the ground here is even and smooth, my poor eyesight makes it a handicap for me to lead. Stubbornly, I try the Sharingan, but all it does is make me notice tiny roaches skittering along the rocky narrow hallways. I blink rapidly, disoriented.

And come face to face with a demon.

I stamp down my punch reflex, hand instead shooting out to grab Hashirama's. He winces as I squeeze, then peers in the direction I'm facing.

"Creepy statue," he whispers.

My Sharingan fades. But the ghoulish horns, skeletal ribs, and pointed teeth with a knife clutched in its jaws are still strangely haunting, even as they become indistinct. "Pretty realistic, too," adds Hashirama. I can tell he's trying to make me feel better. "Let's keep moving."

We duck into another empty corridor that seems to stretch on forever.

This time, I hear sounds at the other end.

It's a familiar shrieking sound. But amplified. A cacophony of sound ricochets off rocky walls. We break out into a run. I slam into Hashirama's back again. I'm grateful his clothes smell fairly clean.

The floor drops off entirely. Our hallway is actually a tiny opening high up on the side of an enormous, amphitheater-like room the size of a concert stadium.

I look down, and instantly regret it.

The sight below churns my stomach. Sure enough, the giant snakes are here, wrecking havoc around the cavern floor. Flesh-colored pinpricks are herded along the ground, scooped up into mouths like beans.

"We have to do something!" I say, instincts kicking in.

"Wait a sec," Hashirama grabs my arm. "See those gold markings again? On snakeskin?"

I squint. _Something's_ g _linting off of torchlight._

"I think so."

"I can see clearly," Hashirama says. "I don't think those snakes are eating these people. Everyone's so calm, it's creepy."

" _Shikigami-born."_

I nearly fall off the ledge in shock.

Whirling, I see a hooded, white-robed figure several feet away. The figure is backlit, so I can't make out physical features. Something silvery gleams from his neck.

My palms curl to fists.

"I'm not a foe," says the figure. "Merely a priest."

The voice makes my skin crawl. It feels not quite human. But then again, given what we've seen so far in this place, nothing feels right.

"You have been sent here by the Shikigami, yes?" the figure asks.

"We—"

I cut Hashirama off. "Sure."

The person's hooded head bobs. "Not you. You have been sent by something else entirely."

My pulse quickens. "Who are you?"

"Again, a priest."

"Your name?"

"I have many. I guess the same is true of you two."

Hashirama steps between us. "Are you related to those people down there?" he demands. "What's happening?"

"They are being sent by Shikigami-sama to do a great deed."

"What deed?" Hashirama presses.

"So full of questions," the priest gurgles, as if laughing. "As I said, they are being sent. But perhaps you understand better with different words. They are going to battle."

"You just said you're not a foe," I grit out.

"That is because _you_ are not an Uzumaki," says the priest. "Or are you?"

 _So cold._

Where once the dry robes felt warm, they now feel thin and damp. "I'm not."

"Strange. I feel that you have an affinity to that clan."

The priest takes a step towrd us. Hashirama spreads his arms across the narrow hall.

"Don't come closer," he warns. "If you want a fight with the Uzumaki, then try me."

"I know _you_ are not an Uzumaki," says the priest. "Your chakra tastes familiar, _Senju."_

History books acknowledge that the Senju and Uzumaki have intricate, longstanding ties. _But how does this creepy priest know these things about us?_

"Don't look so put out, Senju. You will be useful one day," the priest says. "But I'm intrigued…"

In a second, the priest seems to blur into the shadows, gliding along the wall, to reappear on the opposite side of me. I manage to stop the first fist, then catch the second hand. What I'm not expecting is the fisted hand to twist and bend, as if liquefying. The appendage circles my wrist and twines up my arm to catch a hold of my shoulder. Almost a chokehold, from the back.

I can't see the priest's face, but the eerie voice is so close to my ear.

"Let's take a look, shall we?"

 _So cold._

"Let her go!" I register in the background.

"In due time," the priest grins. "Don't get so agitated, or I might kill her by accident."

I can't tell if I hear the voice outside or inside my head.

"You hear me, don't you?"

I will myself to breathe evenly.

"Don't feel too bad. Telepathy is hard to resist, especially for the intelligent and powerful. Tell me… who is this Uzumaki Boruto? His name is so clear, in your head."

 _No_ , I mouth. _No one._

"Oh, he's a _someone._ A very powerful someone. Rather like you. You've got so. Much. Potential. I like that."

A tremor runs up my spine.

The flood of memories is about to escape. But if they do, I want it to be on my terms. I force chakra to my arm, dislocating the joint, twisting my body to face the priest's. Before he can slither away, before he can squeeze shut his strangely glowing pupils—

—our eyes lock.

The cavern falls away.

Sounds fall way. Touch, sensation. I no longer feel the pain of my arm.

The sky is tar black.

 **"Now** _ **you**_ **listen,"** I say.

The priest's hood is tugged away. The head appears but an inky shadow. I can't fathom the reason for this nightmarish appearance. This reality is imperfect and subjective, a reflection of my own fears and biases.

"Impressive." The priest whistles. "Everything here seems out of time, out of space."

 **"An illusion,"** I say. Not a lie, technically.

"Yet so realistic," continues the effusive praise. "But it can't be real. You have quite the imagination, young lady." The priest stills, taking in the ruined landscape of Konoha. "… Or do you?"

 **"You first. Tell me where we really are."**

"Whirlpool Island," says the shadowy mouth. "I thought that was obvious."

 **"You said those people are being sent to battle. With who? Where?"**

"What easy questions!" the priest yawns. "You didn't have to do all this to make me tell you." As thorns rise from the ground and begin to twine around his ankles, he sobers. "Just a small, localized war."

 **"Stop it with the secrets."**

"Hypocrite, are we?" the priest sighs. "Let me tell you a story. A long time ago, the people on this island were pious folk. They discovered the secrets to sealing through daily devotions, and their technique grew as their chakra grew. It was perfect. But time passed, and the bloodline became diluted. Fewer and fewer had the right chakra. Some started to forget the old ways. Married outsiders. Gave themselves new names."

There's no history book that covers this far back. **"What names?"** I ask.

"You know one. Uzumaki."

 **"You hate them?"**

"Oh, it doesn't matter if _I_ like the Uzumaki. But unless the forest tribes can reclaim this island, their chakra bloodline will never recover."

 **"I don't follow."**

The priest raises his hands in an exaggerated shrug. "It's a given that stronger chakra is better, yes? These tribes have long had the strongest, most unique chakra signatures. Oh… I suppose that once in a blue moon, an Uzumaki child is born with unique chakra, but then the child grows and is used to hunt down the very ancestry it should thank for its gift. Still, the forest tribes are pious. They believe that those pure of chakra should be spared from death, and have removed them from the village before the war."

" **A civil war,"** I murmur. **"Then those snakes…"**

"Sending the pious to do great deeds. In your secular language, they are moving the fighters into Uzumaki village." The priest gurgles. "I'm bored. Do I get to ask a question now? Who is this Madara I see in your brain? He intrigues me."

 **"None of your business,"** I grit out—

—and kick the intruder out.

* * *

With a sharp yank, I extricate myself from the priest's hold, and _push._ As hard as I can. The hooded figure falls from the ledge, down into the mess of bodies below.

A lingering echo sounds in my ears.

' _You'll kill again. Kill the ones you love.'_

As the priest's parting words recede, the sharp pain in my arm grows very real. But it's a welcome pain. I'm here, in the present. And there's no future I'm forced to think of, except the one I'll be making anew. I snap my joint back in place, and taste blood from where I bite my own cheek.

Warm hands settle over my shaking shoulders. Hashirama's face is haunted, reflecting how I feel. "What happened? I saw you caught that priest with your Sharingan."

"That's no priest," I gasp. "I'm not sure if that's even human. Let's get out of here."

"Where? Did you figure out what's happening down there?"

"Sort of." If this is a civil war, and my hypotheses are correct, then we're in a race against time. "I don't like it either, but we need to leave Mito to Munch and Tobirama. Something a lot bigger is happening."

I move to the ledge, squinting at the blurry scene down below.

Then I turn to look back at Hashirama.

 _For Naruto-sama's clan. For Konoha._

"Hey," I say with a shaky grin. "You said you trusted me."

He nods.

"How do you feel about getting swallowed whole?"

Understanding dawns on Hashirama's face.

"As long as we bring some extra clothes."

* * *

Getting eaten is not the hard part. Neither is being spit back out in a dripping mess, now that we have the foresight to swab down with extra fabric. In fact, the furthest thing from my mind is how abused my epidermis is, as I watch three hundred odd people stream onto the sloped mountainside. They're tiny pinpricks, crawling in the dim light of pre-dawn. The serpents that brought them seem strangely entranced, ducking back into holes in the ground. _Maybe they're bringing more._

I squint at the hordes of figures who begin to clamber down the the mountain toward the main village. The ones several yards away, I can tell, are red-haired. They're bandaged from head to toe in what appears to be gauze of various colors. They carry few weapons I can see, only plentiful scroll holsters.

Several of those nearby seem to wave their arms at a few other figures along the mountain, who crumple.

 _Darts! Poisoned ones, like those used on Mito's attendants!_

I duck and roll close to the ground. Not for the first time, I curse my poor eyesight. Hashirama is nowhere to be seen, so I pat off my clothes and break out into a dead run.

Here's the hard part:

Our plan is to find Uzumaki Ryuchiro, and keep him safe. Then, if we can, do the same to the leader of the tribes, that _Zetsu_ that Horio described.

But first, avoid dying.

"Commander!" a nearby fighter shouts. "Nezu's here with news!"

I run in their direction, transforming myself to have red hair and bandages across my face and limbs. Then I duck behind a tree several feet away.

"… Ryuchiro is … shrine," I catch.

The rest is too hard to hear.

I move closer to the trio, pretending to be fixing my hair.

"Get him into a palanquin," says a man who is too tall and large to be Nezu. He's more like a small house than a mouse, at nearly three times the size of me, with a braided trail what look to be tassels coming down from the crown of his head. I can't see any trace of skin, just bandages swathed all around.

"Think about what reward you want, Nezu. The Continent can be yours. The entire world, should you serve faithfully."

"The honor is mine, Commander Zetsu."

My breath catches. _This is my chance._ But how does one remove a commander from the middle of his troops? If I fight him up close, I risk my own head. If I move farther, I can't see.

There's another option.

Susanoo.

' _You'll kill again. Kill the ones you love.'_

That's right. Without my eyesight, Susanoo could mean indiscriminate destruction. A throbbing headache starts. My fingers knead at my temples. I bear no grudge against the forest tribes, nor do I want the added cost of alerting the whole world of my true identity. Besides, I should cleave only unpopulated mountains, without shrines sacred to the clan I'm trying to impress.

My thoughts focus.

 _Find Uzumaki Ryuchiro first._ If the Clan Head's the one the forest tribes want in the palanquin, then I need to keep him far away from the carriage.

But where is he? There was talk of a shrine. Which shrine?

I think of what Mito's instructor said about shrine rituals. _Think, Sarada!_ Depending on the lunar season, the male clan head's scheduled visits are two or four hours before Mito's shrine visit schedule. I can't recall what lunar season this is. Regardless, the options are finite.

What time is it, though?

A periwinkle sky is overhead.

 _One hour to dawn? Less?_

I start sprinting up the mountain, toward the lower third shrine, carved into the barren rock face on the eastern end away from the village. It's slower going than I would like, especially as the rest of the fighters dressed in bandages are heading down the mountain. In an overabundance of caution, I actually slow my ascent a few times.

Until I spot a dim figure heading up the mountain as well.

"Did you see it?" I call as a test. "The shrine dedicated to Miss Mirror."

The man starts running up, accelerating. I hold up my fists, prepared to fight in case I've been found out.

But he stops just short, and heaves a long, winded sigh.

"The scribbles on your bandages aren't quite right," he says. _"Miss Mirror."_

I nearly collapse with relief. "Glad you made it."

"Me and most of my hair," says Hashirama. "By the way, where are you going?"

"To find the clan head."

I recount everything I saw and heard with the Commander Zetsu, Nezu, and the palanquin plan.

"So why are _you_ heading up the mountain?" I ask.

Hashirama appears grim. "I heard something among the fighters. The forest tribes have hidden a secret weapon at the top of the mountain."

"Secret weapon?" I echo. _Sounds like cheesy television._ "Well, let's get Uzumaki Ryuchiro out of here."

Hashirama catches my sleeve.

"What now? There's no _time,_ " I stress, trying to shake his hand away. "If you don't want to come, go catch their Commander Zetsu with a tree or something."

"Not a bad thought," Hashirama scratches the back of his head. "But it should be ready by now. _Our_ secret weapon."

We stare at each other in silence.

"You don't say," I deadpan.

"Actually, I'm not sure what it is, either." Hashirama explains in earnest. "And there's a chance it's not done, but I need you to check, Sarada. This mountain is covered in woods, so I'll take of things up here. You go down to the village, to a store called 'Gion Yunyuhin _.'_ There, you'll find my cousin Gouda. He'll have what we need. Please trust me."

 _"What?"_

"Trust. What friends do."

Hashirama watches my anger rise.

"It includes all sorts of activities," he adds softly. "Like getting eaten by snakes and running down mountains."

Something's tearing. Maybe the fabric of this era.

Maybe my sleeve.

"What if I don't want to?" I sniff.

Unexpectedly, Hashirama cracks a smile. A real one, which warms his tired face.

"But maybe it's the right thing to do."

* * *

Glistening trails the size of train tracks mar the streets of Uzumaki village. Flecked with bits of gold paint, they are both horrifying and beautiful to behold, as I run down the cobbled streets, trying to make out the ruined sign posts. Every few minutes, the ground begins to shake, like a small earthquake. I tell myself to keep running. It's likely some of the serpents that retreated from the mountain are here, and have begun tunneling under the town.

 _ _Gion Yunyuhin - an imports shop.  
__

 _Third building down Gakusha Lane, crossing with Main Street._

Main street has been gouged out. The once plentiful trees have been splintered, its paper lanterns blown away onto the shuttered porches. I try to piece together the remaining road signage as I search for Gakusha Lane. I have to activate my Sharingan on and off to try to read the street names.

 ** _G—sha_** , one sign reads.

I run down, only to realize it's an entertainment district.

 ** _—kusha_** , reads another.

An alley of repair shops for carriages and carriage parts.

 ** _G—a_** , reads another.

 _Close enough._

I kick down the bolted door of the shop front, squinting with Sharingan on as I try to distinguish between the small number of shocked, frightened faces in the room. Everyone I see has varying shades of red hair. None of them look like the Cousin Gouda I had transformed into previously.

 _Ah. There. Under the table._

A shockwave from below hits the building, and some of the roofing comes undone. A few young children start crying, hugging their pale-faced parents.

"Are you Gouda?" I gasp, crawling down to join the shuddering man.

"I wish I wasn't," Gouda says despondently. "Though I guess it won't matter, soon."

"Your cousin told me to find you," I say, clutching at the tilting ground. "He says you have a secret weapon."

"Tobirama?" Gouda frowns.

"Hashirama," I say, exasperated. _The man who has a talent for describing his cousin, apparently._

"Oh." Gouda smacks his lips. "Then you're that girl he was talking about. Well, I have it with me. But it comes at a price."

"Just hurry it up!" I snarl. "It won't be long before the forest tribe fighters arrive."

A few whimpers sound around the room.

"It's a promise, then," whines Gouda. "You have to set me up with a friend."

I have to physically stop myself from shaking Gouda in my frustration. He reaches into his haori, takes out a small wrapped cloth bundle, and then proceeds to painstakingly remove layer after layer of fabric.

 _What the hell secret weapon is this? A pocket knife?_ My teeth clench. _Maybe it's a powerful scroll._

By the time the last layer is unwrapped, my throat has gone bone dry.

The shape is unmistakable.

"Secret weapoooon—" Gouda says in perfect monotone. "—Unveiled."

Glasses.

It's a pair of glasses.

.

.

.

 _tbc_

* * *

.

.

.

 _Notes:_ This arc is steeped in cultural (and Naruto) lore, the multitude of which I won't bore you with, but feel free to PM. However, what you may find interesting for foreshadowing the future plot is the translation of _Gion Yunyuhin_ as Gion's Imports. As a side note for fun, _Gakusha Lane_ is Scholar's Lane, which fits since we're talking about glasses. The ruined signage are all meant to match the stuff in the street too. Perhaps you can guess the missing letters.

As always, huge thanks for your patience and insightful words.


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